Marriage of True Minds
by the classicist
Summary: Sequel to Time of the Season and The Honeymoon Period. With a baby on the way, Harry and Ruth are really beginning to feel like a married couple. But when problems hit, can our favourite couple sort things out? Or is this the end of the line?
1. Dust to Dust

**A/N: Hi, everyone! Here's the sequel to the sequel to Time of the Season. Hope you enjoy! I'm dedicating this story to all the amazing writers who reviewed, favourited or read Time of the Season and The Honeymoon Period. You guys really gave me the confidence to write this one! PS: I don't own Harry, or Ruth, but if anyone feels like buying them for me, then that would be great...**

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**9****th**** March 2011**

It is barely daylight, so the lights are still switched on in the Pearce household. Ruth stands before the hall mirror, staring with a critical eye at the knee length black coat she's wearing buttoned up over her black office dress. Harry descends the stairs unnoticed and stands for a moment in open appreciation of his wife. At last, Ruth turns to him in anxiety and asks, "Is this coat loose enough, do you think?" Harry frowns uncomprehendingly and strides over to stand next to her in the mirror, staring at her frame with unashamed lust.

He wraps an arm around her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Loose enough?" he repeats curiously. Then, drawing back, he jokes, "Why? Not stashing your violin up your dress, are you?" Ruth, the musician of their burgeoning family, rolls her eyes, although a faint smile plays around her unusually taut lips. "No! But I'm starting to show, and it seems, well, _insensitive_ to go to a funeral flaunting a baby bump."

Harry shakes his head at his wife's scruples. "I'm sure that no one will notice," he soothes gently. Ruth's shoulders are still tense, though, and after a minute, he reassures her sensibly, "And even if they do, you've got nothing to be ashamed of." She smiles again, only half-convinced, and replies, "N-no... no, I suppose not." Turning at last away from the mirror, she reaches up a hand to straighten Harry's wide black tie. "How do you feel?" she asks sympathetically. Harry sighs, the reason for this weekend excursion returning to his mind. "Christ, I hate funerals," he mutters, and rests his head on Ruth's shoulder. "We've been to far too many." Ruth's small hands raise his head so that she can kiss him on his furrowed brow. "Just be thankful that this one isn't work-related," she points out.

If they weren't there for a funeral, they would probably find the Welsh scenery quite idyllic. As it is, neither Harry nor Ruth can enjoy themselves. Harry is the first to greet their old friend once the service is over. "Malcolm, we're so sorry," he murmurs. Malcolm had lost his mother three weeks ago, exactly a month to the day Harry and Ruth had moved into their house in the country. Needless to say, it had been a shock for him. Malcolm tries to smile and fails miserably. "Thank you, Harry. I'm so glad both of you could come – sorry you had such a journey."

Briskly, Ruth tells him, "Nonsense. How are you, Malcolm?" He shakes his head wearily, and Ruth notices that he looks paler and thinner than ever.

"Still in shock, I think," he sighs at last. "I keep getting out two cups for tea in the morning, and turning on the television for Countdown for her. Strange really – she was a bit of a dragon..." His voice breaks at this last, and Ruth wordlessly hugs him. As they part, Malcolm brushes away a tear. Once again trying to feign his usual cheerfulness, he points out to Ruth, "Anyway – that's the question _I_ should be asking _you_. You look very well."

Ruth smiles softly, as Harry's arm comes to rest protectively around her shoulders. "I am, morning sickness aside." She's got used to the idea of her pregnancy by now, and can honestly say she's never been happier. Harry, her darling Harry, is taking everything in his stride, and carrying her along with him – making plans for turning one of the spare rooms into a nursery, keeping track of doctors' appointments alongside JIC meetings and generally being the model of an expectant father and loving husband. Just as she has always known he would... Malcolm clucks sympathetically, and rubs her arm. "Poor old thing. I hope Harry's taking good care of you."

Harry smiles ruefully, and gives the answer that best fits the truth. That has always best fitted the truth. "We take care of each other," he states firmly.

* * *

As they begin the long drive back to London in the early evening, Ruth sighs deeply. Harry waits in silence for her to voice her thoughts, as she always does now. "Poor Malcolm," she says at last. A lump comes to her throat as she recalls their mournful farewell, at the hotel he's staying at for a few days, for the sole purpose of burying his mother next to his father, the former vicar of a little Welsh parish on the edge of nowhere. "Maybe I should have stayed with him for a few days... He seemed so... lost."

Harry nods, slowing the car down, as a set of traffic lights turns red. He reaches over and squeezes his wife's arm in comfort. "I know..." There is a pause and Harry wonders how to broach the subject his mind has been pondering for a few days. At last, he just blurts it out. "I'm going to ask him to come back." Ruth turns to him, half-shocked, eyes wide in her elfin face. "To the Grid?" she asks, although clarification is hardly needed. Her mouth creases into a line of disapproval. "Harry, I hardly think – " Her husband shrugs his shoulders and absently changes gear. He understands grief. They both do. But the way he sees it, dwelling on it does no good. "I think having something to do would help him right now, Ruth."

She remains still for a moment, thinking. She remembers coming back from Cyprus, and losing George, and how her work gave her something solid to cling on to, a rock of comfort in a sea of desolation. "Perhaps you're right," she admits at last. Harry gives a smile that, on any other man, would have been called smug. Ruth notices this and continues firmly, "But wait a week or two, Harry. Let him grieve first." He sobers instantly.

As they turn onto the motorway, he agrees, "Very well, my darling."

They arrive home to Scarlett's welcoming bark and a stew in the oven, courtesy of Mrs Evans, the lady from the village who Harry hired, in theory, to do the cleaning. In practice, this motherly lady cleans, cooks, gardens and even, on occasion, has been known to walk the dog, and make sure both Scarlett and Fidget are fed. Ruth isn't entirely sure what they'd do without her, and the way things are on the Grid these days, she definitely doesn't want to find out. Life is certainly busy, and as she dishes up the stew and feeds Fidget, while Harry takes Scarlett for a quick walk down to the village and back, Ruth realises she doesn't want it any other way.

**A/N: Please throw me a review if you have the time - I'd like to know what you guys think.**


	2. Cravings

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews for the last chapter! Hope you enjoy this one... and Pavlov's dogs belong to Pavlov...**

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**20****th**** March 2011**

Ruth returns to the living room, pale and scowling. "Add tomatoes to the list of foods my body will no longer tolerate," she tells Harry sulkily. He pats the seat next to him sympathetically, cursing the bad luck that has given Ruth morning sickness in the evening. She sinks onto the sofa, exhausted by a combination of a busy day on the Grid and an hour spent in the bathroom after an ill-advised dinner of spaghetti bolognese. They sit in comfortable silence for a while, Ruth's head resting on Harry's reassuringly solid arm. He thinks she's drifted off to sleep, but then he hears her voice, slightly muffled by his sleeve, ask, "Harry?"

He smiles softly. "Yes, O light of my life?" His voice is light and teasing, but Ruth still huffs in exasperation. "Harry..." she complains, shifting her position to look up at him. She still hasn't got over her phobia as regards compliments, but Harry is determined that he will spend their marriage showing her how beautiful, intelligent, kind, principled and valuable she is. For now, however, he merely pouts, coaxing a tiny smile from her. "What?" he protests. "It's true. You know it's true..." He kisses the tip of her nose for emphasis, and her grin widens, showing off the dimples in her cheeks.

"Mmm..." she murmurs contentedly. Then, giving herself a little shake that he's sure she's somehow picked up from Scarlett, she repeats, "Harry?" Deciding not to tease her anymore tonight, especially since the morning sickness might still return, he replies sensibly, "Yes, Ruth?" She's frowning now, as though wondering how to break some news to him, so he gently runs a finger between her eyebrows, trying to smooth out the creases she's making. Her eyes flicker with distraction, and he fights back a grin. Insistently, she reaches up and removes his hand, holding it in hers. "You know how when a woman's pregnant, she can get rather odd cravings?"

Harry nods, enjoying the feel of her fingers running circles in his palm. "I do recall something..." he mumbles abstractedly. Ruth taps two fingers down on his palm to get his full attention and he looks up at her blue eyes. "Well, I'm getting some, I think," she explains. Harry laughs suddenly, delighted at the fact that her own body has finally conquered his usually indefatigable wife, who has previously carried on through hell, high water, influenza and, once, a combination of all three. "What for?" he asks, highly amused. Ruth blushes charmingly, and at last admits, "Apricot jam on cheese crackers..." A faraway look appears in her eyes, and she swallows as though she's been salivating. Harry, ever the gentleman, makes no mention of Pavlov's dogs, but merely sighs, "Dear Lord... I'd better pop to the shops, then."

Ruth's face lights up, and she informs him brightly, "You know, Harry, you're _lovely_." Harry stretches his arms as he rises from the sofa, and glances about for a pair of shoes that aren't Ruth's. "Twenty years ago, being described as lovely would have disappointed me beyond belief," he muses thoughtfully. Ruth's brows knit together in concern, lest she has said something wrong. "And now?" she prompts him anxiously. He looks down at her, face alive with reassurance and love. "Now? It's the best compliment I ever hope to receive," he replies softly. Ruth smiles wryly, ducking her head to hide her faint blush. He kisses the top of her head and heads for the door.

When he returns, he's bought not only the jam and crackers, but also some more of the green tea she's taken to drinking since morning sickness hit. Ordinary tea was one of the first things to go on the banned list, after a rather memorable morning briefing when Ruth had turned a spectacularly interesting shade of green at the smell of Dimitri's full mug. He unpacks the shopping while she loiters in the kitchen. Throwing a dry cracker with one deft hand to Scarlett, who rather likes them too, Harry smothers some more with the jam, and, wrinkling his nose slightly at the somewhat curious smell that the combination produces, passes the plate to Ruth. She sits down at the table and sighs happily as she bites into the first one.

Harry sits down with her, watching as she gets a blob of jam on her cheek and subtly tries to lick it off. One of the things that has most surprised him after their marriage has been the utter chaos that sometimes surrounds Ruth – contrary to popular opinion, she doesn't always do the ironing, or eat five pieces of fruit and vegetables a day, and she quite regularly goes out at weekends wearing odd socks, having forgotten her handbag. And he loves her even more for all her imperfections. "You know, Ruth, I may be suffering from some cravings too..." he murmurs slyly. Ruth raises her eyebrows, trying to second-guess him. "What are you craving?" she inquires after a moment.

He stands up, and comes to kneel beside her. "You. Always you."

Ruth thinks for a moment, and then smirks softly, "Then I think we should pop upstairs." His eyes widen in interest, and then he reminds her teasingly, "Ah, but what about your crackers?" Rolling her eyes, Ruth leans down for a passionate kiss.

"Bugger my crackers, Harry..."


	3. The Old Guys

**28****th**** March 2011**

After two weeks of hard negotiation on Harry's part and soothing persuasion on Ruth's, Malcolm finally comes back to the Grid. Privately, Ruth thinks that this was his intention all along, but she hasn't mentioned anything to Harry about this, who is indulging in a rare moment of smugness over his persuasive abilities. No matter what the reason for Malcolm's return, Ruth grins happily as her friend walks shyly onto the Grid that morning. She rises from her desk immediately and goes to hug him, seeing that some familiarity is needed. "Malcolm, welcome back!" she greets him, and pulls his head down to her level in order to kiss his cheek.

He smiles bashfully at her, and then raises his head, calling out, "Morning, all." Harry appears from his office, and heads over to the rest of the team. The other officers are standing around somewhat awkwardly, weighing up their returning team member. Briskly, Harry says, "Introductions. Malcolm Wynn-Jones, this is Dimitri Levendis... Beth Bailey... Tariq Masood... and Alec White." Shyly, Tariq steps forward, and murmurs, with the air of an ardent fan meeting his favourite rock star, "You're a legend! I'd love to hear how you invented that remote CCTV bugging system..." Delighted with this praise, Malcolm allows Tariq to guide him over to his workstation, talking animatedly.

Show over, the rest of the team disperse and Ruth returns to her desk, followed by Harry. Propping himself up on her desk, he asks "What do you think?" Opening her first file of the morning, Ruth grins. "I think Tariq's a bit star struck," she informs her husband. "It's nice to have Malcolm back, though..." Harry nods. Both effectively without siblings, Malcolm and Ruth have always shared a special platonic bond. Perhaps, in this time of personal change, Malcolm is just what she needs. From his office, Harry hears his phone ringing, and groans. "Another quiet day at the office, then," he jokes to Ruth. Kissing her quickly on the cheek, causing Beth to smother a smile, he returns to his office and shuts the door.

"Home Secretary," he says, lifting the receiver of the phone. And as he listens, his face falls.

Half an hour later, Harry opens his office door, and yells, "Alec!" Beth gives Alec a look – usually Harry only uses that tone of voice if someone has made a major mistake, something that Alec is particularly good at. Innocently, Alec shrugs. "I swear," he mutters as he gets up, "I haven't done anything. No flirting with the pretty girl on reception, no late night boozing, not even a parking ticket. Unless breathing's become illegal nowadays, Bailey, he's got nothing on me." Snorting in disbelief, Beth returns to her filing.

Ruth looks anxiously up at Harry's office. The blinds are being closed, always a bad sign, and she wonders what is going on. Harry had been perfectly fine on the drive into work that morning. He'd been in a positively good mood before that phone call... After an unusually long meeting, Harry and Alec leave the former's office together. Alec returns to his desk, while Harry, with a grin and a wave for Ruth, heads for the pods. "Where's Harry going?" Ruth demands, trying to remember if Harry's diary had contained any meetings for that morning. Alec shrugs. "You're his wife, Ruth, you should know. I'm not his keeper!"

Such a vexed response is highly atypical for Alec, and this worries Ruth even more. Determined to find out just what is going on, she seizes her chance when Alec gets up at midday to make a cup of coffee. Cornering him in the kitchen, Ruth bars the door with her body and asks, "Just what is going on? You came out of Harry's office acting like someone had stolen twenty pounds from you. Something's wrong."

Alec shakes his head. "Nothing's wrong. Harry and I had a bit of to-do, that's all. Want a coffee?" Ruth folds her arms, not believing a word of it. "That's bull," she states, ignoring Alec's open-mouthed gape of surprise at her words. "Harry shouts when he's angry, and those office walls are very thin. We would have heard if an argument was going – we usually do, anyway. So what was going on?"

Alec turns away, stirring his coffee, and eventually replies, "Alright. Something is going on. Ruth, do you know anything about Operation Omega?" Ruth frowns, thrown by the apparent change of subject. "Y-yes," she stutters. "1978-9. MI-5 and MI-6 collaborated on a series of clandestine ops to force the West German government into a crackdown on communism. A series of bomb attacks. There was one in Cologne, as I recall from the file. Harry was involved, I know, as well as Juliet Shaw. But what has this got to do with what happened this morning?"

Alec braces his arms against the kitchen worktop, and explains, "Some decommissioned officer who also worked on Omega is threatening to go to the German Secret Service with concrete evidence that Omega existed. An operation this big, that caused so many civilian deaths... it wouldn't go down too well over there, as you can imagine." Ruth's face twists with distaste. If she didn't know Harry, his involvement in Omega would probably have been enough to provoke her dislike. But she does know Harry. Yes, he has killed people. Yes, he has been forced to take part in somewhat unethical operations. But he is also the man who wakes in the middle of the night, sweating and shaking and sometimes even screaming, from nightmares of the past. She looks down at the floor, eyes troubled and listens to what else Alec has to say. "Harry is the only one with insider knowledge, so the Home Secretary has requested that he go into the field to find this guy and bring him back. We can get him for attempting to breach the Official Secrets Act. Or if that fails, we've got our man in HMRC going over his tax returns for the last five years."

Ruth doesn't smile at his joke. "Harry's going away? Why didn't he tell me?" she asks in a faltering voice. Alec walks over and rests a hand on her shoulder. "He wouldn't have told anyone, if he hadn't needed me to keep an eye on things here. The Home Secretary told him to keep people in the know to a minimum." Ruth sighs and passes a hand over her eyes, suddenly feeling very alone. "Where is he now?" Her voice sounds, even to herself, small and lost. Alec doesn't reply, and Ruth looks up to see him biting his lip, unsure, for once, what to say. "Ruth, I can't – " he begins, but Ruth lifts her finger and jabs it into his chest.

"Alec, if you don't tell me where he is, I will never forgive you," she half-cries. Alec sighs deeply. "Alright..."

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The fact that Harry is leaving for Europe on a tiny run-down little steamer from the same dock from which she fled after Cotterdam all those years ago would create a certain amount of fear in a less superstitious woman than Ruth. She can't help feeling that something is terribly wrong, and Mike, seeing her tense face and white clenched hands, does his best to drive quickly to her destination.

When she arrives, she is immensely relieved to find Harry still loading his few bags onto the boat. She approaches at a run, and cries out when still a few metres away, "Harry!" He turns in shock, and walks toward her, taking her hands. Tactfully, the captain of the steamer, boards his ship and begins stowing Harry's luggage in the hold. "I told Alec not to tell you where I was leaving from," Harry frowns seriously. He had hoped to avoid hurting her with an emotional farewell that would recall unpleasant memories for them both.

Ruth folds her arms, and retorts, "And I told him I'd never forgive him if he didn't." Brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, she adds, "Omega, then." Harry nods and pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly ill at ease. "I'm the only agent available who remembers the operation, apart from our old friend, anyway," he explains, but both think of Juliet, almost paralysed and later turned traitor. If she had still been around, Harry would not be going anywhere...

"They need me to find him and bring him in, before he decides to tell anyone just what this operation was about." Ruth rests a hand on his arm, and squeezes briefly, trying to give him comfort. "How long will you be away for?" she murmurs, fighting tears. Harry's eyes darken and his wraps his arms around her, holding his wife tight. "It could be as long as a month. I'm so sorry, my darling," he whispers. "If I could get out of it..." Ruth forces a smile, although her heart is sinking horribly, and reassures him, "I know. But it's your job. Can you tell me where you'll be?" Harry shakes his head, and glances toward the boat, wondering how long they have together. "I don't know myself," he admits. "The rogue agent could be anywhere. I'll write to you when I can. _Tabula recta_, probably. Any ideas?"

Ruth's mouth quirks upwards in a lop-sided grin, and she suggests, "What about _The Odyssey_?" Harry gives his deep, full-throated laugh, the one that reminds her forcibly of Muttley, and replies, "That would be very appropriate, although hopefully I won't be away for twenty years, and you won't have to fend off the unwelcome attentions of dozens of suitors." She gives a watery laugh, and wipes away a tear that is rolling slowly down her cheek. "Be careful," she begs in a broken voice, reaching out to clutch at his jacket lapels. "I want you back in one piece, Harry Pearce." Trying to lighten the moment, Harry offers her a deep bow, and says in mock-chivalrous tones, "My lady's wish is my command." She doesn't smile. Seriously, he adds, "I will. I will, Ruth."

She nods, and turns her head to stare out at the waters of the Thames. "But I can't ask you to promise me." It isn't a question, more a statement of acceptance. Neither of them knows whether this operation is going to be dangerous, or even if he will come back unharmed. In their line of work, there is always that risk, the one they try to pretend isn't there. Suddenly it is hard for Harry to breathe. "No, my darling," he agrees heavily. "I can never keep that sort of promise, so I will never make it." Ruth swallows, not even trying to prevent the tears from falling any more.

"I love you," she whispers, and he holds her in his arms again. When they part, she murmurs, in a voice that even he can barely hear, "Bye, Harry."

"I love you too. Goodbye, Ruth." He bends his head, and the boatman sees his passenger give his extraordinarily pretty friend a passionate kiss. They kiss like two lovers who have never kissed before, and who will never kiss again. Both are transported back five years, to Cotterdam and Oliver Mace, and this dockside, where they found and lost each other.

But this time, when they part, it is Ruth who is forced to stand and watch as Harry walks quickly away from her, and boards the boat. It is Ruth sees the boat sail away, carrying her heart with it. It is Ruth who remains on the dock until the boat is carried out of sight, feeling empty and spent, and wishing for Harry's arms and Harry's lips and Harry's solid comforting warmth. And then it is Ruth who turns and walks away, still weeping.

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Several hours later, Ruth walks back onto the Grid, eyes tear-stained and swollen. Wordlessly, Beth rises from her desk and hugs her friend. Obviously, Alec has enlightened the rest of the team. "He'll be back before you know it," Beth comforts her softly. Ruth knows that Beth's words are meant well, but she can't help the tears that start in her eyes again at the mention of Harry's absence. "Hmm."

Decisively, Alec tells her, "Take the day off." This suggestion brings Ruth back to herself. Swiping her hand across her streaming eyes, she replies, "No. I can't, I have these files to finish for tomorrow – " She hasn't taken a day off for personal reasons in all her time at Section D, and she doesn't intend to start now. Beth interrupts her quickly. "I'll do them." Normally, Ruth would feel grateful. Beth usually has to be prodded and bribed into completing any sort of paperwork, but today her concern just serves to irritate her.

It is Alec's characteristically brutal honesty that eventually wins the day. "You're no use to us in this state, Ruth, and it isn't good for Junior either, so get out of here. Now." The fight goes out of her, and her shoulders sag wearily. "Thank you," she tells him, sincerely, and collects her bag and coat.

Back in the Sussex countryside, Ruth spends the rest of the day curled up on the sofa, crying into Fidget's fur, and trying in vain to explain to a thoroughly mournful Scarlett why Harry isn't with her.

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**A/N: Sorry for the angst, everyone...**


	4. The Happy Wanderer

**A/N: Specially written for espiyo, who wanted to see Harry do some "spookery" and who reminded me that my original version of this part of the story was perhaps a little too Ruth-centric! Enjoy...**

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**Dublin, 12****th**** April**

Phoenix Park is a place Harry has never visited before, not even during his time in Ireland in the 1970s. Northern Ireland had been more than enough to keep him occupied, without venturing south. The park is one of the largest walled gardens in Europe, covering just over seven hundred hectares, and containing, rather bizarrely, the residence of the American Ambassador and Dublin Zoo.

But Harry isn't here for the animals or the politicians. One of his contacts in the city has had a lead on the whereabouts of Pollard, the traitor he's trying to find, and they are due for a meet. Spotting his agent on their designated bench, he heads over and sits down. Colm Doyle has known Harry since childhood. With an Irish father and English mother, educated at a British private school and an Irish university, and combining a fierce patriotism for both his countries with a dislike for nationalist extremism, Colm has proved an invaluable asset to his old friend. "Hello," he grins, sitting down on the bench. Colm returns his smile and hands him a paperback.

"I've just finished it," he explains. "I think you'll enjoy it, Harry. Especially the last chapter." Harry accepts the book and gazes out over the park's largely empty avenues. "Is our friend still in Dublin?" he asks. "I'd love to see him before I head home." Colm nods, sending a thrill of excitement down Harry's spine. With any luck, Pollard would be in custody by sunset, and he could return home to Ruth. He firmly clamps down on that thought – nearly a month spent trailing Pollard around half the known world has taught him not to get his hopes up too soon. Dublin could turn out to be just another Madrid, or worse, New York...

To any passer-by who happens to catch their conversation, it sounds like idle chitchat between two old friends. They remain on the bench for a while, talking about rugby, films and old times, and then Harry gets up. "Good to see you, Colm. It's been too long." Colm stands up as well, and shakes Harry's hand. "Indeed it has. I've not even met your wife yet, Harry. You introduced me to Jane on the wedding day!" Harry chortles, and then retorts dryly, "That was my first mistake, wasn't it? Made her realise she'd picked the short straw."

Still laughing, the friends part.

Later on, Harry makes his way to the rundown house whose address he found written on a slip of paper inside the book Colm gave him. The street is deserted, save for the tramp on the corner whom he recognises as the sole Special Branch operative they've given him in case things turn nasty. Not wanting to draw attention to himself by going in through the front, Harry circles the street and comes out in a small forecourt, lined with gates into the back gardens of the houses.

Opening the gate corresponding to the house he wants, Harry enters the garden. It's a mess, all overgrown grass and broken furniture. Harry picks his way across the garden over to the battered back door. Its blue paint is peeling, and the glass pane in it has been boarded up, as have the other windows. It's a deprived area, hardly the salubrious surroundings he's used to, and he feels a sudden pang of pity for all the people who are forced to raise children here. At least Catherine and Graham had a decent start in life... Shaking his head, he tries the door, fully expecting it to be locked.

It swings open easily – always a bad sign. Harry steps inside, and uses a broken piece of furniture to brace the door open in case a quick getaway is needed. The kitchen is empty, with no trace, except for a few stubbed out cigarette-ends, that anyone has lived here recently.

Upstairs, he finds more cigarette ends and a filthy mattress. There are no clothes, however, or other belongings, and the whole house has a cold, unlived-in feel to it that makes him conclude his suspect has recently moved on. Nothing can be gained from staying here any longer, so, hopes dashed, Harry leaves, making sure to give the tramp on the street a five-euro note, their private signal for disappointment, as he does so.

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Back at his hotel, after a hot shower and a decent meal, Harry sits down to write to Ruth. He tries to keep his letters cheerful, leaving out all the disappointments he's had, and makes sure to do the same when they have a rare opportunity to speak on the phone. But he really wants to pour out all his sadness at being away from her, all his frustration at following a wild goose chase. He wants to tell her that he hasn't really been sleeping because he can't feel her next to him, shifting and mumbling in her sleep. He wants to tell her that the food's no good because he's not eating it with her. But doom, gloom and depression are definitely not what Ruth needs right now, and it won't make him feel any better to dwell on it either.

Sighing in exasperation, Harry picks up his fountain pen and begins to write...


	5. Playing Penelope

**21****st**** April 2011**

She misses him like she'd miss a limb. She spends her days on the Grid staring into his empty office, and her nights crying as she realises what he suffered after she left him on that cold dockside all those years ago. The others can say nothing to console her. Ruth tries to be rational. She tells herself that in just a few short weeks he will be back with her. But this doesn't work when she wakes in the night, cold and alone in their bed and missing his comforting warmth. It doesn't work when she is driven alone to work in the mornings. It doesn't work when Scarlett looks up eagerly from her basket when she arrives home at night, expectant in the hope that Harry is going to walk through the door, and then retreats in sorrow to her basket having ascertained that Harry is not present. Even Fidget has started throwing her dirty looks. The hardest thing about his absence is going to a pregnancy scan on her own. Beth comes along for support, but it's not the same without Harry. She finds it extremely difficult to stick to their agreed refusal when asked if she wants to know the baby's sex – she could do with something to cheer her up – but in the end she does turn down the offer. Finding out without Harry seems wrong.

They speak as regularly as they can, when he can find a secure line, Harry usually exhausted by the time difference, since he insists on ringing at times that will be more to Ruth's convenience than his own. He writes to her, too, often partly in their _tabula recta_ code, using Homer's _Odyssey_, and it is almost like having him in the room with her. Almost...

One such letter lands on her desk one morning at Thames House. She recognises the firm, bold handwriting, and immediately rummages in her bag for her copy of the Odyssey, checking the code at the start of his letter for the page number.

_My darling Penelope,_

_JQDZZG BECAD. Meeting today with the French Ambassador here – she's almost as nice as Juliet. I'm well and busy, but hoping to be back on Ithaca before long, so NORWICH (Sorry – couldn't resist it). Hope you and the little one are well. Missing you both with all my heart,_

_Yours as always,_

_Odysseus._

Tariq pauses on his way to the photocopier and glances over Ruth's shoulder, frowning in confusion. "Penelope?" he asks curiously. "Ithaca? Ody...Odys...?" Ruth sighs in exasperation and silently counts to ten, before telling Tariq helpfully, "Odysseus. He's a character from Greek mythology. He lived on the island of Ithaca, and his wife Penelope stayed faithful to him although he spent twenty years away from her." Tariq's face clears for a moment, and then he frowns again. Ruth smiles up at him, and explains, "It's from Harry. A joke..."

Tariq rolls his eyes, because Greek mythology is not his idea of humour, and stares down at the letter again. Then, with the air of the impossibly young, he adds innocently, "What's Norwich?" Malcolm splutters, nearly choking on his tea, causing Dimitri to thump him firmly on the back. Ruth's face turns crimson from her chin to her hairline. Stifling a laugh, Alec tells Tariq, in his best fatherly voice, "I'll tell you when you're older, mate." Staring quizzically at the team's various reactions, Tariq shrugs and returns his attention to Ruth. "Where is he?" he asks. "He's been gone so long..." Ruth swallows and chokes back a sob, suddenly reminded of her grief. Beth, sitting at her usual place next to Ruth, throws a screwed up ball of paper at Tariq's head and flashes him a warning look.

"Berlin," Ruth replies at last, checking the code against both her book and the grid of paper she's taped to the inside of her desk drawer. Malcolm overhears and says encouragingly, "So he's not far away. Might be home soon." Ruth makes a noncommittal noise in her throat, hurriedly folds the letter away inside the book and puts both back into her handbag. "That's what he says," she elaborates wistfully. But that's what he's written in every letter he's sent to her almost ever since he went away.

Not for the first time, she curses the service for tearing them apart for so long at such a bad time. Then, she tells herself she's being selfish, that the country, and the countless innocent people whose lives he's saving have a far greater claim on him than she does. _Regnum defende_. Whatever the cost...

* * *

**29****th**** April 2011**

When she wakes up alone on her birthday, her first birthday with Harry, she cries. Forty-one years old and she is crying. After a while, she gets up, eats breakfast, dresses and waits for Mike to pick her up. He's late, which is unusual. No, not unusual. Exceptional. Ruth distracts herself and does some washing up. Then she pegs the laundry out to dry. One thing leads to another, and she is halfway through the dusting, coat and handbag abandoned on the sofa, when she finally hears the doorbell ring. Grumbling about being late for work, and fending off Scarlett, who has suddenly started barking her head off, she goes to answer it. But it is not Mike at the door.

Harry is standing there, impossibly tanned, gorgeously unshaven and carrying suitcases in both hands. She launches herself at him at the same time as Scarlett and he is forced to drop his luggage to catch her up in his arms and kiss her thoroughly on the lips. He walks her backwards into the house, still kissing her, and kicks the door shut behind them. When they finally break apart, he informs her unnecessarily, "I'm home." Ruth laughs wetly and grips him tighter around the neck, burying her face into his crinkled blue shirt.

"Happy Birthday," he whispers into her hair, and before she has a chance to say anything, he is kissing her again, passionately, with the ferocity of a man who loves with his whole heart and soul. "Did you miss me?" he growls against her lips. Ruth searches her head for words that will express to him the horrid, gut-wrenching pain that his absence has caused in her, and eventually, inadequately, settles for, "Miserably." He sighs, and rests his warm forehead against hers. "And now? How do you feel now, Ruth?" She smiles through the tears that are still pouring down her cheeks.

"Ecstatic," she confesses softly. His lips curve up into a smile. "Oh, I'm glad," he murmurs, in that low voice that never fails to send shivers up her spine. "So glad." And then he's taking her hand, and leading her up the stairs, into blissful oblivion. They emerge several hours later, Harry in a t-shirt and boxers, Ruth with one of their bed sheets wrapped around her, leaving just enough to Harry's splendidly active imagination.

Now that she's sane again, Ruth remembers to ask him, "Why are you home so soon? Your last letter never mentioned anything about the operation being over." Harry grins sheepishly and explains, "I had a fairly good lead when I wrote, but I was afraid of telling you I was nearly done, in case it turned out to be nothing. I caught up with our friend a couple of days after I wrote to you – before he had the chance to do any damage, luckily. We extradited the bloke late last night, and I got on the next train on the Tunnel back from Paris."

"Paris?" she asks, mind whirling. "But, Berlin..."

He grins smugly, and she can tell he's been longing to explain everything to her since he arrived home. "I've been flying places pretty much every day since I left. Madrid, Berlin, Marrakesh, Dublin, even New York for a few days."

"The Grand Tour, then," she jokes softly. Harry glances up at her, midway through scratching Scarlett's ears, eyes utterly serious. "Hardly. No time for cafes or culture, I'm afraid. And anyway, I promised myself a long time ago that we'd do that together." She blushes, and he holds her gaze intensely. Ruth sees love and desire and promise, all wrapped up together, and she tells herself that she is a very lucky woman...

"Better ring work," she reminds him, breaking his gaze. "Bet they're having a fit!" Harry's only reply is to grin roguishly and throw himself down onto the sofa opposite her. She picks up the phone and dials Alec's desk number, flicking the speakerphone button on as she does so. He picks up immediately.

"Hello," he says. "You do know it's a weekday, right?" Ruth blushes, wondering how to explain to him. "Um, yes..." she manages at last. "It's just Harry got back a couple of hours ago, and we've been... busy." Alec snorts with laughter.

"Of course," he grins. "Busy. I suppose you'll both be taking the day off, then?" She shoots Harry a querying glance, and he nods enthusiastically. Stifling a laugh, she tells Alec, "Yes, please. If it's not too busy down there..."

Alec sighs, his voice coloured with mock-heroism. "We'll just have to manage." A thought strikes him, and he suddenly asks, "What do I do if the Home Secretary turns up?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Bugger the Home Secretary," he calls lazily, and Ruth giggles.

"OK," Alec agrees easily. Harry gets up and sits down next to Ruth, one hand playing with her mussed hair as he promises, "We'll do the skeleton shift tomorrow with Beth and Dimitri. You and Tariq take the day off." The team on the Grid must have their speakerphone on too, because the next thing they hear is Tariq's whoop of delight in the background. Harry ends the call, and turns to his wife. "So, now they know we haven't been kidnapped, what do you want to do?" he asks teasingly.

She sees the glint of humour in his eyes, and knows the answer he wants to hear. Ruth rises from the sofa, sidling out of the grip of Harry's insistent hands, and tells him absently, staring into the mirror above their mantelshelf, "Oh, I don't know... We could invite Malcolm for lunch. It's his day off too. Or we could tidy out the garage. Soon I'm going to be too big to help..." She turns back to him just in time to catch the look of deep disappointment in his face. Harry schools his features carefully, and forces a smile. "That sounds lovely, dar – " He stops speaking as Ruth bursts into peals of mischievous laughter.

"You wretched girl!" he exclaims indignantly, realising he's been tricked. His hands are reaching for her, and, doubled over with laughter as she is, Ruth can't fend him off. She is in his arms, being kissed senseless. "Upstairs... now... Lady Pearce," he orders between kisses, and, still laughing, she obeys...

* * *

**A/N: Dedicated to Lady J, who hinted that she would like to see a fluffy, passionate reunion... Next chapter - angst ahoy for a while.**


	6. Overreactions

**A/N: _Come Away with Me _belongs to Norah Jones. Hope you enjoy the chapter, and have time to throw me a review...**

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**1****st**** May 2011**

With Harry back, things quickly settle down. They do the Saturday skeleton shift, with regular breaks for kissing, and then return home. Sunday morning is spent, as usual, in bed, reading the papers and taking the opportunity to behave just like any other married couple. After the chaos of Ruth's birthday, Harry has decided to make Sunday night special. Ruth hates going out on Sundays, so he cooks for them at home, careful to stay away from anything that could make her sick. Norah Jones, one of Ruth's favourite artists, is playing softly in the background and his mother's recipe for sausages and mash with onion gravy goes down very well, as does the rice pudding he makes for dessert and the long white candles he has set on the table. It is comforting home cooking that definitely delights his utterly unpretentious wife. "That was beautiful, Harry. You're spoiling me, you know."

He grins as he gets up to take their empty dishes away. Scarlett and Fidget are curled up at Ruth's feet, the former's belly full with bits of sausage that Harry threw to her earlier. Their house is at peace. Vaguely, he hears the CD switch onto the next track as he turns back to the table. Ruth, to his horror, is sitting where he left her, tears running down her cheeks and dripping onto the scrubbed wooden table. Gently he wraps his arms around her, utterly bemused, and holds her until she stops crying. Wiping her cheeks, she looks up at him, bereft, and explains, "This CD... I bought it in Paris, just after... Cotterdam. I listened to this song so many times, wishing I'd had the courage to ask you to..." She dissolves into tears again, and Harry, pausing to listen to the lyrics, closes his eyes in understanding.

"_And I want to wake up with the rain_

_Falling on a tin roof_

_While I'm safe there in your arms_

_So all I ask is for you_

_To come away with me in the night_

_Come away with me..."_

"Shh..." he whispers into her hair. "I'm here now, Ruth. And I'm not going anywhere, ever." She nods against his chest, and wraps her arms around his neck. They sit like that for a long time, with just the music and the flickering candlelight and the scent of her perfume, and at last Ruth sits up properly and smiles at him. "Thank you," she whispers earnestly.

"All part of the service, darling," he informs her lightly and presses a light kiss to her forehead. Harry's phone suddenly rings, and he breaks apart with a muffled oath. But his voice is calm when he answers. "Pearce speaking... Hugo..." Rolling his eyes at Ruth, he goes out into the hall. Ruth remains at the table, fiddling with her new silver necklace, a birthday present from Harry. 'Hugo' can only be one person – Sir Hugo Rotherham, Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee. She hates it when this happens. In a moment, Harry returns. He is frowning, and he looks somehow older than he did when he left.

"Sorry, Ruth, they've called an emergency meeting of the JIC. I'll have to go." Her heart sinks, but she gets up from the table anyway, forcing herself into what she privately thinks of as her professional mode. "At this time of night? What about?" she asks. Harry runs a hand through his hair and starts pacing back and forth, clearly agitated. "One of Six's agents in the Middle East has, to coin Rotherham's phrase, 'gone native'," he explains. "We need to decide who we have to pull out." Ruth's tear-swollen eyes widen in shock. A fiasco this big can, and probably will, open a very large can of worms for British Intelligence. "Oh God..." she whispers.

"I don't know how long it'll take," he confesses, vexed that he has to leave her _now_, when she's still upset. "I'll stay in London if it finishes late." She nods, and straightens her shoulders. Harry needs her strength now, not her tears or complaints.

"Of course," she says serenely. "Go and change and I'll sort you out an overnight bag."

By the time Harry reappears in suit and tie, Ruth has packed him a bag and even had chance to remove all traces of their dinner. The music has been switched off, and the candles blown out. Harry sighs a little sadly. Yet again, there is a reminder that they can never have a completely ordinary life. He supposes he should just be glad that Ruth has taken him at all...

"I'm sorry about this, Ruth," he apologises as he slips on his velvet-lapelled overcoat. "Just after I've got back, as well..." Ruth brushes his hand briefly with her and retorts sensibly, "Don't be silly. It isn't your fault. Drive safely, won't you?" Harry's brown eyes soften at her concern – after so many years alone, he had never dreamt that anything like this was ever possible again. Even when he had been married before, Jane had been far more likely to sulk at his absence than wish him a safe trip. "Hmm," he murmurs. "I'll call Mike to give you a lift in tomorrow, just in case." He places a chaste kiss on her forehead, and leaves. Ruth remains at the door and waves until his car has disappeared down the drive and out of sight, then with a sigh, returns back inside.

* * *

**2****nd**** May 2011**

When Ruth arrives on the Grid the next morning, after a restless night of tossing and turning, Harry is already in his office, looking over some paperwork. Smiling, and suddenly feeling much better, she walks over and pushes open his door. "Don't you people bloody knock - ?" he begins snappishly, at the sound of the door opening, and then he looks up and sees her. All anger dissolves from his face and he murmurs, "Oh, sorry, darling..." She wanders over, and he kisses her cheek.

"Morning," she replies. Then, noting the slight dark lines under his eyes, she queries disapprovingly, "Have you slept at all?" He shrugs, avoiding her eyes, and replies, "I got a few hours kip at my club, and then came here early to get some work done." She seats herself on the edge of his desk, arms folded. "A few hours?" she repeats. "Can't have been that many, it's only half eight now..." Harry glances up again from his paperwork, and smiles briefly at her. "Oh, no, the meeting finished at eleven."

Ruth stiffens slightly, vexed for some reason by his answer. "Eleven? That doesn't sound too bad. I thought you were only going to stay if the meeting finished really late." Harry reaches out and wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. "I just didn't want to disturb you by bursting back into the house in the early hours," he explains rationally. "It was easier to stay in the city." She slides out of his grasp and stands up, brushing down her skirt as she does so. "Of course." Harry winces at her cool tone.

"You're angry," he sighs.

"No, I'm not," she insists frigidly.

At the risk of sounding childish, however, Harry persists, "You are."

Ruth's temper, exacerbated by a sleepless night, snaps. "I'm your wife, Harry, you're allowed to burst in on me in the early hours!" she says abruptly. Beth unfortunately chooses this moment to walk in. "Morning, you two!" she grins brightly. Harry turns to her, face red with anger. "Knock, can't you?" he snarls. Beth cheery grin falters, and she gropes for the door behind her. "Oh! Should we start without you?" she asks nervously. Ruth blinks in confusion. "Sorry?"

Beth casts a glance between the couple, and repeats, "Briefing. Should we start without you?" Calmer now, Harry raises a hand to fend off any more questions. "No, we're coming now, Beth." Gratefully, the junior field officer ducks out of the door. Harry drifts over to Ruth, and takes her hands in both of his, kissing them gently. "I'm truly sorry, Ruth," he says regretfully. Her momentary ire melts away, and she shakes her head. Wanly, she replies, "It's alright. I'm overreacting. I'm sorry too. You don't need this right now..." Harry raises his eyebrows and pulls her into a hug. "Overreact as much as you like. It was selfish of me not to let you know what was going on." Then, leaning back, he frowns, "You look like you haven't slept at all..."

Ruth smiles shyly. She won't admit to him that she's been up for most of the night, pacing in agitation because he wasn't with her. "I'll make it up to you," he promises solemnly. Ruth laughs, and cups his cheek with her hand. "You're here," she responds self-consciously. "That's enough for me, Harry. It always has been..."


	7. Quarrel

**A/N: Very angsty chapter... and the next few aren't looking too cheery, either... Thanks for all your reviews so far and hoping you'll stick with me x**

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**5****th**** May 2011**

It has been an exhausting, mind-boggling day, so Ruth is fervently glad when Harry pokes his head out of his office door at six, and calls, "Ready for the off, Ruth?" She nods, and picks up her pile of paperwork. "Just about – let me sign these files back into Registry, and I'm done." Her husband pouts, and reminds her, "You're working too hard, you know."

Glancing over her shoulder as she enters Registry, Ruth retaliates firmly, "And _you_ know that I'm not going to justify that with an answer, Harry." His protectiveness is simultaneously endearing and irksome, but she supposes that it will only get worse as her pregnancy progresses. He has even taken to insisting that she wear flats rather than her usual heeled boots to work, something that initially made her laugh, until she realised that he was serious.

Upon her return, Harry helps her into her coat, and flicks off the lights on the Grid before guiding Ruth into one of the pods. Downstairs, Mike is waiting for them both, with a grin for Ruth and a nod for Harry. He's driven Harry long enough to completely understand his past and present relationship with Ruth, for whom he has a definite soft spot, and is probably one of the people who is most happy about their current arrangement. As they drive home, Harry idly flicks through the agenda for his JIC meeting the following day, while Ruth sleepily watches the lights of London fade away as they enter the countryside and speed for home. Finally, Harry breaks the silence with, "I spoke to the DG today."

Ruth smiles softly. "About him and the Spanish Ambassador? That must have been an interesting conversation..." she replies dryly, thinking of the surveillance photographs Tariq had revealed at their morning briefing a few days ago. Harry gives his Muttley laugh, and then explains, in an off-hand voice, "No. Actually, I was just putting in a word about your maternity leave, and getting someone in to cover you. And then there's the possibility that you won't be coming back to work afterwards – " _Now_ she is fully awake. Jerking her head around to look at him so fast that her neck cricks, she squeaks, "What?"

Harry frowns at her obviously unexpected reaction, and elaborates, "Well, you might decide to give up work when the baby arrives. It's surely best that he – or she – has at least one parent who isn't risking their life every day." Ruth's jaw drops in shock. She hates the word _gobsmacked_, but even she would probably admit that this is how she is presently feeling. "And you think that parent should be me?" she inquires, shocked. To her annoyance, Harry rolls his eyes, and answers, "I don't think anything, I was just suggesting – " She can feel her face turning red, not, as usual, with embarrassment, but with anger. "And how _dare_ you speak to DG about this before you'd spoken to me?" she interrupts. A thought strikes her suddenly, and she hisses in deadly tones, "Did you tell him I was giving up work?"

"No!" Harry cries, terrified that his innocent mishap is going to escalate into a fully-fledged argument. "I just mentioned your maternity leave and – " Ruth's lip curls in marked disgust. "I don't think I want to hear any more, Harry." And then Harry utters his crowning blunder. "I don't see why you're being so hormonal, Ruth!" Her blue eyes narrow dangerously, and a part of him can't help but think how sexy she is when she's angry. But all thoughts of that are wiped from his brain with his wife's next words. "Excuse me? Did you just say _hormonal_? How _dare_ you speak to me like that?" Her voice is rising an octave per sentence, and Mike is glad when they pull up outside the Pearces' house. Ruth launches herself from the car immediately, nearly throwing the door off its hinges, and disappears into the house. Sighing, Harry forces a smile for Mike. "Night, Mike," he manages wearily.

Mike gives an uneasy grin and gets back into the car. Harry walks up the garden path, and enters the house. The landing light is on and their bedroom door firmly shut. Harry ascends the stairs quickly and bangs on the locked bedroom door with the flat of his hand. "Ruth, you have to talk to me!" he calls. "For God's sake, you're my wife!" She replies immediately, words muffled by the inch or so of solid wood that separates them. "Well, that can easily be changed!" she spits scathingly. Harry closes his eyes and counts to ten. Losing his temper never did any good with Jane, and he's sure it will have no effect on Ruth.

"Ruth – " he murmurs at last, trying the door handle again.

"Oh, just go away, Harry!" she snaps.

"No," he insists. "Ruth, open this door! Now!" To his surprise, the imperative works. The door does open. However, his relief is short-lived, when an elongated, black object flies out of the gap between the door and the jamb, narrowly missing Harry's ear. The door slams shut again. "That was a warning, Henry James Pearce!" Ruth shouts. "Next time, I_ won't_ miss and it _won'_t be a hairbrush!"

At a loss, Harry turns and, defeated, heads downstairs into the study. He is just downing his second double malt when he hears the ominous sound of the front door closing. Struck with the sudden panic that only a deep knowledge of Ruth can give, he runs out of the study and back up the stairs, which now lie in utter darkness. The bedroom door is ajar, the room itself empty. Frantically checking the wardrobe, he finds her overnight bag has vanished. She has gone.

* * *

In the Range Rover, half-blinded by tears, Ruth connects her phone to the hands free, and dials the one person who can help her. Thankfully, he picks up the phone on the first ring, and she blurts out, before he has time to say anything, "Malcolm?" Needless to say, he is somewhat startled at her call. "Ruth? Are you alright?"

"Not really," she confesses chokingly. "Harry and I have had a massive row, and I've left." Malcolm wonders if his hearing is going. "_Left_?" he repeats, stunned. Ruth nods, even though she knows he can't see her. "Yes. I need somewhere to stay – " Back on firm ground, Malcolm assures her comfortingly, "I'll make up the spare room. How far away are you?" It will be nice, he thinks, somewhat treacherously, to have some company, even if it's just for one evening. "About an hour," she sniffs, clearly distressed.

"I'll see you soon," he replies. Ruth sighs with relief. Malcolm's calm, no-nonsense approach to life has always been solid enough to calm her. The oppressive weight of her argument with Harry seems to lighten a little. "Mmm – and Malcolm?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

He paces the front room until he sees the lights of the Range Rover pull up and opens the door onto a very dishevelled looking Ruth. "Ruth..." he murmurs sympathetically. Suddenly, she throws herself into his arms, and clings on to him. Hesitantly, he wraps his arms around her, trying to remember if he's ever been this physically close to someone. "Oh, Malcolm..." She bursts into tears, and he can feel them soaking into his jumper. Cradling the back of her head with his hand, he sighs soothingly, "Shh, shh, it's alright... It's alright."

* * *

Not surprisingly, the phone rings again about half an hour later. Malcolm answers quickly, leaving Ruth curled up on the stairs, and hears Harry greet him. "Malcolm." Flashing an uneasy glance towards Ruth, he says, "Hello, Harry."

In the study, Harry runs a hand through his mussed brown hair. "Is she there?" he inquires desperately. "Is she safe?" Wincing, Malcolm pauses for a moment, and again looks at his guest. She shakes her head firmly, and he stutters, "W-who?" Harry's already frayed temper reaches breaking point. "For Pete's sake, Malcolm, you know who I mean!" he growls. "Ruth!" Determined to maintain his pretence for the sake of Ruth, who is watching and listening to him intently, Malcolm answers nervously, "Why - why would Ruth be here?"

Harry lowers his voice. "You're the brother she never had, Malcolm. We had a massive row and she stormed out, and I'm getting worried. Please." It's the first time Malcolm has ever heard Harry come close to begging for anything, and the fact that both have now used exactly the same words to describe this evening's events melts his hear. He gives in. "She got here about an hour ago." He hears a crackle down the line as Harry sighs with relief, and a nearer disgruntled snort as Ruth rises up and stalks into the living room. "Thank God," Harry murmured fervently. "I've been ringing round the whole of our address book asking after her..." Now that Ruth is absent, Malcolm takes the opportunity to enlighten himself. "What happened?" he demands. "Ruth won't tell me anything." Harry starts pacing, trying to work out how it all got to this stage. "Just a row," he protests, exasperated. "I suggested that one of us consider leaving the service, because of the baby, she took it to mean that I wanted a housewife, and – "

Malcolm gives an audible cluck of disapproval. "Harry, I admire your intellectual abilities, but I have never met anyone so tactless in all my life." Harry halts, chest swelling with indignation. "Tactless?" he reiterates. "It's not me who flew off the handle! I told her it was just her hormones making her get all worked up – " _This just gets worse and worse_, Malcolm muses silently. "Really? Bloody Nora, you're lucky she didn't wallop you," he informs Harry frankly. "Ruth gets testy when she's angry at the best of times, let alone when she's pregnant." Malcolm is completely correct, Harry realises. He buries his face in one of his large hands, and exclaims in muted tones, "Oh God, I've messed everything up, haven't I, Malcolm?"

Although he privately agrees, Malcolm tries to offer some comfort. "You'll be seeing her tomorrow – speak to her then. Apologise and explain yourself," he advises calmly. Harry nods, wondering how he came to be accepting marital pointers from a man who had never even lived with anyone. "Alright," he agrees. "Let her know I called and that I love her and I'll see her tomorrow. Bye, Malcolm."

"Goodbye, Harry."

Malcolm returns, a little warily, to the living room. Ruth is sitting on the sofa, limbs ravelled tightly up in themselves. He sits down beside her, and waits for the inevitable explosion. Surprisingly, it's less heated than he expects. "What did Harry want?" she asks harshly. He can tell she's been crying again, but wisely ignores it. "He wanted to know you were alright," he reasons. "He sounded terrified. Apparently he'd been ringing round half the address book." Ruth's mouth tightens, and she asks dryly, "Checking up on me?"

"Making sure you hadn't done anything stupid, I think," he corrects warningly. "It's a little childish to run away from home, Ruth."

"I didn't run away!" she flares up wrathfully. "You spend five minutes on the phone with him, and suddenly you're on his side?" _Typical Harry_, she thinks, scowling. _Always managing to manipulate someone!_

"I'm not taking sides," Malcolm insists, adding after a moment, "And I won't argue with you either, if that's what you want." His tone is gentle, but with the hint of hidden steel below the surface. Ruth subsides and unfolds her arms. Quietly, she says, "Sorry, Malcolm. What did he say?" Standing up again, he lays a hand on her shoulder.

"That he loves you and he'll see you tomorrow." Her dark brows knit together in most un-Ruthlike sulkiness. "And he thinks I _don't_ love him?" she fumes.

"No," he replies simply and calmly. Ruth raises her hands and runs them through her hair in aggravation. "If I didn't love him so much, Malcolm, I wouldn't be so bloody angry with him."


	8. The Morning After

**A/N: A short chapter, because all the angst is even making me unhappy!**

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**6****th**** May 2011**

The next morning, Harry is up and dressed, and on the phone to his driver by 6 o'clock, pretending to have an urgent, early meeting at the Home Office to get to. Mike's daughter is ill with chickenpox and he hasn't slept much, so Harry feels slightly guilty about manipulating him into an earlier lift. But when he reaches the Grid at seven thirty sharp to discover Ruth already there, alone, the driver is immediately forgotten. He walks briskly over to her desk, where she's already looking through files, and bends down next to her. "Ruth, can we have a moment? In my office?" he asks quietly.

She freezes for a moment, and then replies emotionlessly, "Of course." They rise together, Harry sliding in front of Ruth to open the door for her. She strides past him, long navy skirt swirling around her knee length black boots. Harry enters behind her and shuts the door with an impatient snap. "Sit down," he advises her shoulder blades. She turns to face him, arms folded across her chest. "I'm fine," she returns immediately, contrary to a fault. He passes a weary hand over his eyes. "Ruth," he sighs, "in your condition you shouldn't be – "

She interrupts him, eyes flashing out a challenge to him, and he understands that he is not forgiven. "What did you want to talk about?" she asks. He moves past her and leans against the edge of the desk. Ruth is forced to turn to keep him in view. "Last night," he states hesitantly. "The argument. I'm sorry. What I said was insensitive and – " Again she interrupts, this time angrily.

"You're damn right, it was insensitive," she agrees hotly. "And sexist and high-handed, and insufferable!" She's ticking off adjectives on her hand, and advancing on him in a manner that bodes much ill. "Are you quite finished, Ruth?" he queries sharply, and her mouth sets in a hard, stubborn line. She halts, and then turns toward the door again. "Yes," she snaps, "_We_ are." He can't help but notice the change of pronoun, and he knows her too well to suppose that it was just a slip of the tongue. Ruth glances out of the window, and sees Dimitri and Beth making their way onto the Grid. Relieved to be no longer alone with Harry, she announces coolly, "Now, I think we've got a briefing to attend." At the door, she reminds him coldly, "Not a word to anybody else, Harry. Not a word, not a look, not a _squeak_ about this." The door shuts sharply behind her and Harry lets out a long, unhappy groan.

* * *

She sits as far apart from him as possible during their morning briefing, and remains buried in her computer screen for most of the day. Harry watches mournfully as she sends Beth to deliver some files that need his signature. Usually, they'd take this opportunity to discuss whatever crisis they currently had on hand. Sometimes, they would openly practice flirting with each other, and Ruth had once startled him exceedingly by pressing him up against his own door for a passionate kiss...

He smiles faintly at the recollection, but his joy is short lived. Harry glances fondly over at his wife. She is tucking a single chestnut lock back into the knot she's wearing it in today. Beth and Dimitri have just gone for lunch, and Tariq is fiddling about with some new piece of machinery. Alec props himself against the back of Ruth's seat and Harry hears Ruth laugh, dimples popping out on her cheeks, as the Section Chief leans down to murmur something in her ear.

He scowls and returns to his paperwork. He knows that Alec can be very charming when he wishes, and although he knows better than to suppose Ruth of falling for him, Harry can't be entirely at ease with this new flirtatious Ruth, especially when it isn't him she's flirting with.

* * *

The end of the day arrives at last. Harry grabs his coat, and, momentarily forgetting their quarrel, sticks his head out of his office door. "Ready to go, Ruth?" he calls. She is in the middle of a conversation with Beth at that moment, as the men make plans for a drink at the George. Everyone is there, so everyone witnesses Harry's embarrassment and sadness as Ruth turns and, casting him a glance of utter disgust, says in glacial tones, "I'm catching the bus back to Malcolm's. He's going to drop me off later to collect some of my things, if that's alright."

Beth's jaw drops. Tariq is glancing frantically between the two of them, obviously terrified that World War Three is about to break out on the Grid. Alec and Dimitri are avoiding looking at anyone. "Of course," Harry whispers at last. "I'll be dining at my club at seven." She nods briefly in utter unconcern. "Goodnight, everyone," he adds, and heads toward the pods, head drooping.

They wait for Harry to disappear, and then the rest of the team turn their eyes onto Ruth. She flushes under their scrutiny, feeling as though she's just kicked a bag of puppies. "He deserved it!" she snaps irritably. No one replies.


	9. Tiptoeing Around

**22****nd**** May 2011**

A couple of weeks later and the Grid is buried in one of its minor monthly crises. Harry, with a reluctant Ruth, had been escorted to the Home Office at 8 am sharp, and had returned a few hours later with the distressing intelligence that they were expected to spy remotely on a Russian oligarch making his way into London that afternoon. She hasn't spoken to, or looked at him since. Tariq, under Malcolm's watchful eye, has been tapping away at his keyboard for over an hour now, attempting to break in remotely to the oligarch's highly sophisticated home security system, and Harry is getting somewhat testy. At last, unable to keep in the irritation that, he must admit, is not entirely work-based, he marches over to the technician's desk, and snaps, "Have you managed to hack into that system yet, Tariq?"

Buried in his latest bit of gadgetry, Tariq fails to notice his boss' testiness. "No – it's proving a bit difficult," he replies cheerfully. "You see, there's this hundred-bit code that I have to crack and – " Harry slams his fist down on the desk, making the assorted technology there jump. Tariq jumps too. "Well, Tariq, I don't care about the hundred-bit code!" he shouts. "Just get it sorted, or I swear you'll be looking for another job by lunchtime!" Tariq's eyes widen in the face of Harry's wrath.

"Yes, sir." Harry turns and strides back toward his office. The door slams shut behind him.

Ruth witnesses it all in silence. Then, rising, she presses a brief hand to Tariq's shoulder in comfort and marches into Harry's office, her face set. He is dialling a number on the phone, but he sets it aside as soon as she enters. "A word," she snaps. He raises his eyebrows nervously, wondering what bombshell she is about to drop now. "Of course..." he murmurs, gesturing to the seat in front of him. Ruth shakes her head. "The roof. Now." He doesn't question her. He collects his coat from the back of the door, and they leave the office together. Five pairs of eyes watch them surreptitiously from behind computer monitors as they head up to the roof.

Ruth begins immediately. She's quieter now, and almost pleading with him. "Don't take it out on them just because you're angry with me," she whispers softly. "This isn't their fault. Tariq's doing his best." Harry's mouth tightens, and he turns to face the London skyline. He can't bear her half-hearted attempts at conciliation, not now when she has so publicly rejected him as her husband. Silence reigns, as she waits for his reply. At last it comes. "I'm not angry with you," he sighs, hating the fact that it's actually true. "But there's no room for incompetence and inefficiency here, Ruth." Ruth gasps in indignation on Tariq's behalf. Ever since her return two years ago, she has developed a special affinity with the young technician, and he's been taken somewhat under her wing. "Tariq is the last person you could accuse of being incompetent or inefficient, Harry, and you know it," she exclaims, irritated by his high-handed tone.

His face is blank of emotion when he turns to face her again. "I really don't see what this has to do with you, Ruth." The bottom drops out of her stomach. He's telling her that her opinion is no longer valued, that he doesn't care what she says. She scowls involuntarily, realising how much she used to value her power to influence him. How much she still values it... His words hold a note of finality that she doesn't like. She bites her lip, wondering how to proceed. The idea that springs to mind first will put her on very thin ice, she knows, but she can't help asking at last, "Do you remember when we lost Fiona?"

Harry's head tilts in curiosity and he frowns, memories flooding back. "All too well. Adam was a wreck, nothing was functioning..." His voice trails off and his eyes widen. "Hang on, are you saying that everyone's reacting like they've lost a colleague, just because you and I are... having problems?" He seems unflatteringly incredulous, and she shakes her head at Harry's obtuseness. She takes a step closer and leans against the balcony next to him. It occurs to her that they stood in these exact same positions on New Year's Eve, when everything was new and promising...

"Yes," she explains patiently. "You've seen the others, tiptoeing around like they're on a field of landmines. We have to find a way to work around this. We have to try and be civil to each other." As she finishes speaking, she realises that Harry has shifted position. He is closer to her, shoulders almost touching hers, his large hand hovering a few inches over her own, outstretched on the parapet. "I want to be more than civil, Ruth..." he murmurs, coaxing, pleading. She shakes her head and avoids his eyes, just as she did when he first proposed. He sees her neck shiver as she swallows, mouth suddenly dry. "I mean, we have to act like we did before all this happened – " she tries to tell him. His lowers his hand, and she can feel his touch, glossing over the thin hairs on her skin.

"Ruth..." he breathes. His hand connects fully with hers, and she jumps as though she's just been electrocuted. Suddenly she's two feet away from him, a safe distance, wrapping her thin cardigan around herself as if for protection. "Before we got married," she insists firmly. She wishes that she hadn't been looking at him, for she sees his brown eyes fill with familiar disappointment. Harry looks older, all of a sudden. "If you think it'll help," he promises, resigned to his fate.

"I do," she replies. A mockery of their wedding vows. Trying to convince herself. Always pretending. Always pushing him away... He strides past her in a whirl of his dark coat, and a moment later she hears the door clang shut behind him.

* * *

Later, much later, she's composed herself enough to return to her desk. Ruth isn't looking, so she doesn't see Harry's sigh of relief when she appears once again. She sits herself down at the desk, noticing that the Grid is near empty. Beth and Dimitri have somehow managed to slip off for lunch, an occurrence that is fast becoming a regular pattern since they started dating, and she can just see Tariq's head above his monitor on the other side of the Grid. She catches sight of Malcolm in the briefing room, examining what looks like a dismantled computer hard drive that's spread out on the table. Business as usual, then. Sighing, Ruth turns back to her own computer. A moment later, a shadow falls across her desk. Her heart leaps stupidly at the thought that it might be Harry, and then sinks as Alec's deep voice announces, "Here's that file you asked for, Ruth."

She forces a smile and accepts it quickly, hoping to get rid of him. She likes Alec well enough, but she really doesn't think she can face more than a few moments of normal conversation just yet. "Thanks, Alec." To her dismay, he perches himself on the edge of her desk, and observes coolly, "So you laid down the law to Harry, then." Ruth feigns ignorance. Had it all been that obvious? "Sorry?"

Alec looks down at her, and she realises that she hasn't fooled him at all. "Put him straight about Tariq. He apologised when he came back down from the roof." Ruth's eyes widen, and she can't help glancing over at Harry's office. He's drawn the blinds, a sure sign that he's having a stiff drink in there. "Oh, I just told him that he was being a little unfair..." she protests. It isn't fair for her to have any sort of influence over him any more, yet alone for other people to know about it. Alec looks down for a moment, and then says, "Things still aren't good between you." It isn't a question. His voice is filled with sympathy, and if it had been anyone else, Ruth would have avoided the issue, and turned away the sympathy. But it's Alec, and in the short time they have known each other, Ruth has realised that he isn't a man who can be easily fobbed off.

"Things are bloody awful," she admits at last. Alec doesn't speak for a moment, but he lays a comforting hand on her shoulder and squeezes lightly. "I haven't been here that long, but I can tell it's hurting everybody," he shrugs. "Beth, Dimitri, Tariq – they're all acting like their parents have just split up." Ruth shakes her head regretfully, knowing exactly what he means. A thought strikes her, and she asks impulsively, "So what does that make you, then?"

"Me?" he grins cheekily. He leans closer to her, and confides, "The bloke who's always fancied his brother's wife." Having surprised a laugh out of her, he gets up, and advises, "Don't let it get you down, Ruth." He walks away, and Ruth glances surreptitiously around her. The Grid has emptied itself, and she is alone. Taking a deep breath, because this has to be done at some point, she raises the phone and dials a number. "Hello, Eleanor. It's Ruth. Ruth... Evershed."

* * *

**A/N: So, who is Ruth speaking to? More soon...**


	10. The Beginning of the End

**A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews for the last chapter...**

* * *

**25****th**** May 2011**

_RING...ring...RING..._ With a muttered curse, Harry picks up his phone. "Harry Pearce speaking. Ah, Tom, hello. What can I do for you?" There was a pause and then Harry sank down into his office chair, face suddenly pale. "She's done _what_?" he lays the phone against his chest, trying and failing to absorb the horrifying, life-altering information he's just heard.

Harry remains distracted throughout the morning briefing, and everyone rises from the conference table with the firm feeling that another argument is about to erupt between Harry and Ruth. Sure enough, as Ruth is about to follow Beth out of the room, Harry lays a hand on her arm and holds her back. "Ruth, can I speak to you for a moment?" he asks hesitantly.

"Of course, Harry," she replies, avoiding his eyes. His voice hardens at her patent unwillingness to talk to him, and he wonders how they ever came to this.

"On the roof," he adds.

London's skyline has been part of their relationship from the very beginning, and Harry muses on the bitter irony that it will, in some small way, also be a part of its end. He turns to face Ruth, hands in his pockets, and asks harshly, "You're filing for divorce?" She bites her lip and nods, unsure of what to say. _It was always going to be difficult, Ruth..._ Harry inhales sharply, and breathes, "When did you decide this? And why the hell did I have to hear it from my bloody solicitor?"

Ruth is still staring at her shoes, unable to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I spoke to Eleanor a few days ago. My solicitor, Eleanor Carnegie. You met her at the – " She stops speaking abruptly and Harry suddenly realises why. "The wedding," he finishes, sickened. He'd met Eleanor, who had known Ruth since the pair had been at nursery, and liked her. Christ, they'd even joked about this sort of situation...

"I never wanted it to be like this," Ruth offers. "But then it seemed so cruel to tell you here, and –" His snort of evident incredulity hits her like a lash. "Excuses, Ruth," he spits. She shrugs, looking up at him for the first time. Her eyes are devoid of emotion, and this is perhaps worse than the anger and sadness that has filled them for the past few weeks. "Maybe," she agrees coolly, folding her arms across her for warmth. "You're letting us fall at the first hurdle," Harry cries, gesticulating wildly with his arm. _How can she be so calm?_

Ruth's eyes flicker with ire for just a second, and she snaps cuttingly, "Well, it's a pretty big hurdle to clear when you find out your husband's still living in the ninety-fifties!" He passes a hand over his eyes and groans, "Ruth..."

"I'm not going to discuss this anymore, Harry," she tells him firmly.

"Please..." he beseeches her.

"No," she repeats. "I'm being professional, Harry, like you." Ruth moves to stand next to him and looks out over the view. "Fine," Harry agrees. "Let's talk professionally. What are you going to do about our child?"

"Raise it on my own," she responds immediately. Harry's eyes widen in surprise and he grips her by the shoulders and pulls her around to face him, ignoring her squeak of indignation. "On your - ? Ruth, at least let me help you." Her eyes narrow and she shrugs out of his hold and straightens her coat briskly. "No. I don't need your help, and I don't need your money, either." Harry raises his eyebrows. If the situation wasn't so serious, he would find Ruth's persistent independence highly attractive. Brutally, he reminds her, "You could barely keep you and Fidget on your salary. How are you going to manage with a growing child as well?"

She ignores the question, and informs him brusquely, "You can have unrestricted access, of course. Weekends, days out, whatever you want." His heart sinks as he recalls all those trips he used to take Catherine and Graham on when they were children – to zoos and museums and the cinema, trying to make up for being a bad husband and an even worse father. God forbid he should have to do that again... "Ruth, talk sensibly. We _can't_ get divorced..." She shakes her head and fiddles with her wedding ring, sliding it on and off her finger.

"We can, Harry. We are." The wedding ring comes off her finger and stays off. Softly she lays it on the balcony between them. He feels as though she's punched him in the stomach, and all he can think of is that it was his mother's ring, the ring she wore for thirty years of marriage to his father, the ring that he never even considered giving to Jane when they got married... He swallows. "This isn't professionalism – it's damn heartlessness," he snaps, voice raw with suppressed emotion. She doesn't reply, but merely turns and walks away.

* * *

Ruth emerges from the ladies' bathroom some time later, eyes looking vaguely swollen. But she has no opportunity to sneak quietly back to her desk. Beth bounds up, grinning widely and asks, "Ruth, can I talk to you for a minute?" Ruth swallows and forces a smile. It's hard to remain sad when lively, bubbly Beth is around. "Of course," she reassures her. "Is everything alright?" For some reason, Beth looks as though she's about to burst with excitement.

"Yes," she beams. "More than alright. Dimitri and I are going to live together." Ruth's face falls, worried for her friend. Recent experience has given her a healthy fear of fast relationships. "Really? Oh, Beth..." Beth's shoulders slump and the smile fades from her face. "What?" she inquires, somewhat disappointed at the reaction she has provoked. Ruth frowns softly, and twists her hands together, wondering how to express herself. "You don't think it's too soon?" she ventures at last. "You've only been going out for a few months."

Beth flaps an impatient hand, and argues, "So? I know when something's right, and this is _right_, Ruth!" Her friend and former flatmate is not convinced, however. "Look at me and Harry, Beth!" she whispers heatedly. "I thought _that_ was right. We got married, and six months down the line things aren't working out and I've got to cope with the added responsibility of a child!" Beth is shaking her head, but Ruth pleads with her softly, "Think about this..."

Beth scowls. "No! Don't start projecting your own personal problems on to me. You and Harry have procrastinated for the best part of a decade according to Malcolm. He says you've always argued, and you always will – it's part of the reason you're attracted to each other." Maddened by the fact that Malcolm has been talking about her behind her back, Ruth snaps, "Malcolm knows nothing about it, and he has no right to become the office gossip just because he's the part-timer, either!" Her raised tone of voice makes Tariq, whose desk is nearest, look up in surprise. Beth glares at him until he returns to his work and then pulls Ruth behind the water cooler. "Ruth – open your eyes. Harry _loves_ you! And you love Harry!"

Ruth's eyes blur with tears, but she impatiently brushes them away. "Do I?" she asks harshly. "Well, Beth, if I love him so much, why did I see my solicitor a few days ago and start divorce proceedings?" Beth's eyes widen in shock and she backs away, with the air of having just discovered that Ruth is carrying bubonic plague. "But – y-you _can't_, Ruth," she stutters. "Harry's upset enough as it is – this'll push him over the edge!" Sighing, Ruth passes a hand over her aching eyes, and confesses, "He already knows."

Beth swallows, and Ruth regrets revealing anything to her. She trusts Beth, but Beth trusts Dimitri, Tariq and Alec as well. Malcolm, of course, already knows. "Don't say anything to anyone else, please, Beth," she begs. Beth gives her an incredulous look and folds her arms.

"You're just going to keep this secret?" she demands. Then she lets out a hollow little laugh and adds sardonically, "That'll be a great notice at briefing one morning – _'Hi everyone! Just so you know, mine and Harry's divorce came through yesterday!'_"

Ruth grits her teeth at Beth's admittedly rather good impression of her voice and sighs wearily, "Please, Beth. Everything in it's own time." They stand there for a moment, staring at each other, both refusing to back down. Beth caves first. "I can't believe you and Harry are doing this," she confesses sadly and Ruth is amazed to see that her tough friend's lower lip is quivering. It is a feeling rather akin to having seen Ros Myers smile. Gently, Ruth hugs her. "It's for the best, Beth," she insists. "I can't inflict the relationship Harry and I have at the moment on a _child_. It just isn't fair."

They part, Beth openly crying now. "But things might get better!" she wails. "Can't you wait a while?" Ruth looks away, struggling to find the words to explain.

"I've waited for ten years, Beth. Perhaps that's enough."

* * *

**A/N: I feel so awful for doing this to Ruth and Harry, and I'm not currently sure how (or even if) to get them out of it...**


	11. A New Opportunity

**A/N: Thanks for the great reviews - this chapter is dedicated to everyone who asked: "What the hell are you doing?" (or a question to that effect) in their reviews to the last chapter. Not sure this will make up for the last chapter, though...**

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* * *

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**2****nd**** June 2011**

"Right, well, I think that's everything," Harry concludes, shuffling his files deftly and beginning to rise from the briefing table. "Beth and Dimitri have got some assets to visit, and Alec, you can look up – " He is interrupted by the ringing of a mobile phone. Ruth casts a guilty glance in his direction and he avoids her eyes. Checking the phone's display, Ruth rises too. "I'm sorry – I'll have to take this," she murmurs. She sweeps out of the briefing room and the team hear her newly reinstated heeled boots tapping down the corridor as she moves away.

Reaching her desk, she sits down, answering the phone as she does so. "Ruth Evershed speaking." She has become used to once again giving her maiden name in a chillingly short amount of time, and it makes her think dispassionately that a part of her subconscious had known that her happiness would be all too brief. "Ruthie? It's Mark. Mark Henshaw." Ruth's face splits into a wide smile of delight, and she answers, "Oh God! Mark, hello! How are you?" Mark is yet another friend from her university days, a fellow classicist and academic who has never quite worked up the courage to leave Oxford.

"I'm well, thanks," he grins. "I found your number the other day and I thought I'd give you a call." Ruth's face, which has recently been so severe, softens. Mark's phone calls are irregular at best, since he has that endearing habit, common amongst academics, of getting lost in some interesting research and only occasionally emerging into the real world. "It's lovely to hear from you," she tells him sincerely. "How are things in Oxford?" She knows he's lecturing there now, and it frightens her to think of how much he has achieved in comparison to her. A doctorate, a fellowship of their old college, a happy and stable marriage, children... She bites her lip, trying to avoid that line of thought and the place it will inevitably lead her to. "Oh, the usual round of dinners, lectures, marking papers... you know the drill," Mark says jovially. "I'm actually in London this week for a conference at UCL, and I wondered if you'd like to go for dinner one evening."

Ruth hesitates. She isn't the best of company at present, and Mark is very intuitive. The last thing she needs is more sympathy, however well meaning the giver is. "Dinner?" she repeats, stalling for time. "I don't know..." Mark rolls his eyes, recalling the countless times in their undergraduate days that he and their other friends had had to beg, plead and persuade Ruth into anything more exciting than a trip to the coffee shop. "I'd like to catch up with you," he persists. "We haven't seen each other in so long, and I need to speak to someone about something other than Augustan propaganda in the Aeneid..." If one thing is likely to persuade Ruth, it is the idea that she will be coming out on a mission of mercy.

"I'm not sure I'm the person you should come to, then!" she jokes. The Aeneid is one of her favourite pieces of Latin literature, second only to the poetry of Ovid. Mark groans audibly.

"Oh, go on Ruth. I'll even let you pick the restaurant." She can't argue with that, and in any case, Harry looks about to leave his office, probably to inquire why she's spending valuable working time making personal phone calls. "Alright," she agrees.

"Great. How does tomorrow evening sound? Text me the name of the restaurant and I'll meet you there." Mark couldn't be faulted for efficiency, at least. But maybe she needs someone to bring her out of her shell at the moment...

"Right. I'll see you tomorrow then, Mark," she smiles.

"Bye, Ruth."

* * *

**3****rd**** June 2011**

Thankfully no terrorists have chosen this Friday to blow anywhere up, which means that Harry sends everyone home early, even though he is staying to get some paperwork finished. Ruth leaves the pods and manages to separate herself from the rest of the team by "accidently" dropping her handbag on the floor. Fending off Beth's attempts to help her pick up the various items that have fallen out, she waits until everyone has vanished out of the main doors of Thames House, then heads for the personnel bathrooms. Strictly speaking, they're only meant to be used in emergencies, such as when a team is stuck at work for more than a day, but Ruth is sure no one will mind. What the bigwigs don't know can't hurt them, after all.

She has planned her outfit for this evening very carefully. She's selected an Italian place that she's visited a few times in the past – not completely casual, but not too posh either – and her outfit is intended to match the mood of the restaurant. She showers first and then proceeds to dress. Her outfit consists of a cream dress embroidered at the knee-length hem and elbow-length bloused sleeves with tiny blue flowers, and pale blue flats. She pins her hair up – it's too hot to leave it down – and puts on a necklace of blue beads that Nico had bought her for her first birthday in Cyprus. She hasn't dared wear them since her return home, but pregnancy and an imminent divorce have taken away her reluctance. Why shouldn't she remember the happy times occasionally? A touch of make-up completes her look.

Ruth leaves the bathroom, humming something to herself... and crashes straight into Harry. Her handbag is knocked to the floor. Stunned, she can do nothing more than stare as Harry bends to pick it up. "_Mea culpa_," he whispers, his voice deep and rich. She swallows, suddenly breathless. Her heart is dancing the jive in her ribcage and, as he smiles softly at her, her stomach flips over. She shouldn't be feeling this way about him, not any more, but he's so close, close enough that she can smell his aftershave and feel his warm, shallow breath on her face. Close enough that she could kiss him, if she dared. That is a dangerous line of thought and so Ruth steps backward to a safer distance, taking her handbag with her. "Thanks..."

He takes in her outfit and make-up with one glance. "Going out?" he inquires. His voice is calm and mildly curious. She's heard him ask Beth the same thing a thousand times when she's left work in a pretty frock and heels. But his eyes are never that hopeful or eager or... _lustful_ when he asks Beth. She straightens her shoulders consciously, and focuses her eyes on the singularly insipid wall behind his head, cursing the fact that she's just noticed his shirt is unbuttoned and that his tie is mysteriously absent. "Dinner with... an old friend," she informs him, stifling the desire to explain herself further. He's been married before. He knows what 'an old friend' really means, or at least what it usually means, and his mouth tightens. She notices, and she wants to correct him, but that would suggest she still cares. And she doesn't. Not much.

"Ah..." he replies, head tipped back slightly. He looks... not angry, exactly, but disappointed. _She_ has disappointed him. After a moment of silence, in which Harry struggles mentally in vain, he admits, "You look beautiful." Ruth's eyes flicker onto his face for a moment and she can hear the wistfulness in his voice. She curls her fingers up into her palms. This is a conversation she doesn't want to have. In the past she would have run from him. Now she is glued to the floor, and he appears to be blocking her way. Sensibility threatens to overwhelm her once again. "Harry..." she sighs, half-frustrated.

He holds his hands up in mute apology. "I'm sorry. I can't help it. I don't want to." She steps forward and he isn't quick enough to hide his flinch of anticipation as she does so. His jaw tightens as she tries to move past him, and he quietly steps aside. "I have to go," she tells him firmly. "I'm late already." She isn't, but timing has always been her excuse of choice when it comes to Harry. He nods, looking suddenly forlorn, and Ruth experiences the irrational desire to kiss him on the forehead. "Of course," he answers briskly. But his voice is more hesitant as she walks away from him. "Have a... good time, Ruth."

* * *

When she reaches the restaurant, Mark is already there, engrossed in a menu. She waves at him to attract his attention, and calls, "Mark!" His eyes light up when he sees her, and he stands to pull out her chair, brushing her cheek with a clumsy, platonic kiss. "Hello, Ruth. You look lovely." She smiles softly as she settles into her chair, glad to take the weight of her feet. "Thanks," she breathes, fanning her hot face with her hand. She has realised that summer heat and pregnancy does not go well together.

"But a little flustered," Mark amends sympathetically. "What can I get you to drink?" Harry would have a fit if he knew she was drinking anything alcoholic, even though she could murder a glass of wine, and this is the thoughtless motivation behind her reply. "Just water with ice and lemon, please." Mark looks around for a waiter, wonderfully attentive as always. "Ah, of course!" he grins, nodding at the sizeable bump of her stomach. "Not long now, I suppose." Ruth shakes her head, a frown appearing on her face. The latter stages of her pregnancy, combined with what has turned into a marital estrangement, are not a cheerful topic for Ruth at present. "About three months till I'm due. But I don't want to talk about that right now. It's all anyone's asked me about for weeks." Mark winces a little, and sits down. "Sorry."

They talk about Oxford and Mark's work for a while, reminiscing about old friends and tutors, and Ruth truly begins to enjoy herself. Their food arrives and they break off their conversation to eat. As they near the end of their main courses, Mark clears his throat nervously, and says, "Actually, I've got to confess an ulterior motive here, Ruth." She tilts her head to one side in curiosity, and fiddles with her beads. "Oh?" she asks, forcing her voice to remain light and even. "Good or bad?"

Mark smiles in a lop sided way, and replies, "I'll let you be the judge. I spoke to Polly last week and she told me about you and Harry..." Ruth rolls her eyes, half-amused, half-angry. Polly is one of her best friends from university, the same friend who loaned Ruth her cottage in Cornwall at Christmas that had finally forced Harry into declaring himself again. She has to smile in return. "Let me guess – she said I needed taking out and cheering up. Bloody Polly." Her last words are not really meant. Polly is the most absent-minded person she knows, so Ruth is secretly flattered that she has managed to remember anything Ruth has told her.

"That's about right, yes," Mark admits, shamefaced. Then, staring hard at Ruth, he asks hesitantly, "Are things any better?" Ruth shakes her head, biting her lip as she tries to work out how much to share with Mark. At last, she settles for the blunt truth. "No. They're worse, if that's possible." She toys with the remainder of her ravioli, and then sets her fork aside, suddenly no longer hungry. Mark reaches out and takes her hand, giving it a gently squeeze. "I'm sorry... Have you considered... finding another job? Even travelling for a while?" His reply surprises her. It's something that has never even crossed her mind. "Leave?" she blurts out stupidly.

Mark nods encouragingly. "With things the way they are with you and Harry, don't you think it would be best for you to have some time utterly apart, so you can work out what you want?" His words make a lot of sense when she thinks about it. Perhaps seeing Harry every day is no good for her. But leaving means not just leaving Harry, but also leaving behind her work. The work that she hasn't really thought about much since marrying Harry. She still enjoys being on the Grid, but analysing information is, she realises, no longer her whole life.

"Perhaps you're right," she concedes. "I can't make a decision right now, in any case..." Mark takes a sip of his wine, and then informs her, with the air of someone making a big announcement, "I might have a solution, if you want one... I want to get this project under way – a new translation of Catullus' poems. A collaboration, if you like. But no one seems to like the poor chap – no one I've spoken to anyway." Ruth smiles, dimples rising in her cheeks, and Mark continues, "And then I remembered – who was it at university who always kept a copy of him on her bookshelf?"

"Me..." she answers without thinking. Then she realises what he is asking. Her grin fades and her stomach swoops sickeningly. "Oh, you're not serious? You want me to help you with this?" Mark's eyes light up and he is clearly delighted that she has caught on so quickly. "Yes. It isn't going to be terribly high-profile, but I thought you'd enjoy it." A thousand thoughts run through her mind, and she twists her napkin between her fingers in anxiety. "But my job..." she murmurs wonderingly. "This is going to be a full-time thing, Mark." He shrugs non-committedly, refusing to help her. "Maybe. You'd still have time to yourself, though..."

"I suppose... would I have to come to Oxford?" She doesn't know why she's asking these questions – it isn't as if she'd ever, _ever_ consider accepting. Mark leans forward, and Ruth automatically sits back in her chair. Now is not the time to allow eagerness to get the better of her. "Not necessarily," he argues quietly. "Whatever works for you." Ruth runs a hand through her hair, trying to ignore the excitement that is prickling along the back of her neck.

"Oh, I don't know," she breathes. "It's so much to think about... can I have some time?"

Mark's face twists mischievously. "As much as you need. Just remember that I know you, Ruth. I can see the scholar in you, just bursting to say yes." She sits up indignantly, flushing red with embarrassment. "I am not!"

"Yes, you are," Mark retorts. Then, in his best playground voice, he adds, "Don't fib." About to contradict him again, Ruth realises the truth of his words. Allowing her face to relax into a half-smile, she admits, "Alright. I am. But I can't just make these decisions on the spot, Mark. I have a husband and a child to consider."

Mark frowns, confused. "But you and Harry are getting a divorce," he reminds her. "Why do you need to factor him in? I'm sorry to be blunt, but as far as I can see, Ruth, it's just you and the baby." The excitement fades from her body, and Ruth's shoulders slump again. After a while, she flashes him a somewhat wooden smile, and sighs, "You're right. I know you're right. I just haven't got used to the whole idea yet." Mark nods in understanding, and points out sensibly, "Maybe you will if you aren't seeing Harry every day..."

There is silence for a moment, as Ruth thinks. Thinks hard, and rationally. At last, she gives a breathy laugh, and tells him, "I must be mad."

"Is that a yes?" Mark asks, holding his breath for her confirmation. Ruth inhales deeply and then replies nervously, "Yes. But I'll need a few weeks to sort things out here. And then there's a house to sort out in Oxford, I suppose..." Mark waves her words away with his hand. "Stay with us for as long as you like," he insists firmly.

"Oh, I couldn't do that to you!" Rut exclaims. "Georgina has enough to do without two extra people cluttering up her house." Mark's wife, Georgina, is devoted to their growing brood of children, all of whom are now at school, but Ruth doesn't want to burden her with anything else. However, Mark is not to be dissuaded. "Nonsense," he replies reassuringly. "Georgy would love to see you again, and she'd really enjoy having a little one around again, now Peter's started school." Peter is his youngest son, the most troublesome of the whole bunch, and Ruth hides a smile at the thought of anyone actually missing his presence.

"Then thank you," she murmurs softly. Perhaps life needs to change. Perhaps _she_ needs to change. Perhaps she needs Oxford.


	12. Request Refused

**AN: A short update! x**

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**12****th**** June 2011**

Things slowly simmer down on the Grid over the next few days, with Harry and Ruth making the effort to be civil to one another and calm toward the rest of the team. But no one is happy. Communication has been cut down to the bare essentials, and the fact that the Head of Section D and his Senior Analyst have separated has become the latest piece of Service gossip. Harry can't forget last Friday, when he watched her walk away from him and imagined her in the arms of another man, and Ruth knows that every time he looks at her, he sees her as she looked then. At last, one morning, she plucks up the courage to talk to him about Mark's offer. He sees her from halfway across the Grid, heading straight for his office. "I'm sorry, Home Secretary," he says. "We're having a bit of a crisis at the moment. I'll have to call you back." He sets the telephone down just as Ruth pokes her head around the door. "Harry? Can I speak to you for a moment?" she asks nervously. Harry nods, and gestures to the chair in front of his desk. It's the most they've spoken to each other since _that_ night.

"Of course. Sit down," he murmurs politely, moving some files onto the floor in order to see her better. She obeys quickly, and lays the single file she's carrying on the table between them. Harry waits for her to speak, cursing the fact that he looks a mess after an all-night JIC meeting, while she is still impeccably neat as always. The obvious bump of her stomach can be seen underneath the material of her blouse, and she unconsciously rests her slim hand over it as she meets his eyes. And utters his death sentence. "Things have been so difficult recently, and I don't think we can carry on this way. Neither of us can work properly... A friend of mine has offered me a job, in Oxford. And I've said yes." She sighs, realising she's over-explaining things. "In any case... I'm requesting to leave the service. I need you to sign the decommission paperwork."

The idea is so patently ridiculous that he doesn't even think before replying. "Request refused." His voice sounds cold and entirely unconcerned. He turns back to his computer screen, trying to hide the hurt that he knows must be showing in his eyes. She wants to leave him. Ruth wants to leave him. She _is _leaving him. Just like Jane. She's even going to Oxford, just as Jane did all those years ago... His wife flushes red at his reply, and eventually explodes in a hissing voice, "Don't be so bloody petty!" Harry's hand clenches around his computer's mouse and Ruth sees his knuckles turn white. "_I'm_ not," he insists in low tones. "We need you here – you're the only analyst we've got." The hypocrisy of the whole situation strikes him – she left him for love of her job, and now she is perfectly willing to just walk away. His lip curls in displeasure.

She knows he's making excuses, and it makes her even angrier. Sometimes he can be so selfish. Not everything is about them, after all. "You can get Liza back – with a bit of training, she'll do well," she informs him indifferently, determined to completely deconstruct whatever arguments he is planning. She's thought all this out, of course, being the woman she is – not happy unless she's analysed all sides of every situation and worked out all the possible consequences. Ruth isn't selfish. She knows it will be difficult to leave the Grid now, knows perhaps that it will cause them more problems. But she can't stay in this limbo any more. She's loved Harry for ten years. She still loves him. But things aren't working, and she knows there's no chance of reconciliation this time. Things have moved too fast and too far for that.

"I don't want Liza. I want you, Ruth," he protests plaintively. He doesn't just mean on the Grid, and they both know it. They are so used to speaking in codes, infusing every sentence with a double meaning, of significance only to them, that she doesn't need to question his reply. He sounds almost child-like, and she has to grit her teeth furiously to prevent tears.

"We agreed not to discuss this again," she reminds him carefully. "I wanted to be professional – I came to you about the paperwork. If I have to, I'll go to the DG. Don't make this any more difficult than it has to be, Harry." He closes his eyes against her pleading, for he knows that if he looks at her, he'll agree to anything. He'll agree to kill himself, because that's what it will be if she leaves him again. Christ, it was hard enough the first time around...

"You don't think this is difficult for me as well?" he asks fiercely. "You don't think I hate seeing you every day and knowing you're not coming home with me?" Ruth's hands curl up and she feels her nails dig into her palms. The words tumble out of her mouth before she has a chance to stop them. "Then let me go. Harry, let me go – " Harry's face creases in pain. _Let me go_. The same words she spoke on the dock, after they had shared their first kiss. The words that had marked the beginning of so many years of pain and suffering for him. For both of them. "Sometimes, Ruth, we have to put personal feelings aside and just get on with our jobs," he insists harshly. She gets to her feet, glaring down at him. "Yes – and you're very good at doing that, Harry," she spits. "But I can't do it anymore. I don't want to lie and deceive any more people. I can't carry on working with you. Let me go. Please." The last word is spoken softly, pleadingly.

The repetition is too much for him. Harry slams the flat of his hand down on the desk, making the stationery jump. The rest of the team, hearing the noise, look up in surprise and exchange looks of dismay. _Not again, surely?_ "No," Harry utters simply. Ruth remains there for a moment, glowering mutinously, and then marches out, slamming the door shut on her way. As she returns to her desk, Harry's head falls into his hands.


	13. A Little Push

**AN: Thanks for all the great reviews, and I'm so glad that people are sticking with me, despite all the angst and general Harry-bashing that I'm doing. Hope you enjoy...**

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**12****th ****June 2011 **

When she arrives back at Malcolm's that evening, she is in a foul mood. Working on a Sunday is bad enough, but Harry has been at his most insufferable for the rest of the day, so Malcolm's cheerful, "Good day?" does not go down well. Throwing her coat over the back of the sofa and sitting down, Ruth scowls. "Not particularly. I wish you'd been there, Malcolm. Today, Harry surpassed all former boundaries of childishness and refused to sign my decommission papers." Malcolm clucks his tongue in sympathy and passes her a steaming mug of green tea. "I _am_ sorry – but you told me you didn't want to leave anyway."

Ruth takes a sip of her tea before replying. "It's the Service I want to leave, not _Harry_, but I can't see an alternative, Malcolm," she corrects him softly. "This... tension, it isn't good for the Grid. Everyone's treading on eggshells at the moment – Tariq can't look at me, Beth and Dimitri are terrified to even smile at each other. And I think Alec's on the verge of throwing the towel in! It's ridiculous." Her explanation is exactly right. He's noticed all the signs during his workdays, and has had his days off to brood over them. Biting the bullet, he ventures, "I'll talk to Harry, if you like."

Her head snaps up, and her eyes, which she had lazily closed, open immediately and focus themselves on him. "What?" she asks, rather snappishly. Malcolm sighs, and squeezes her shoulder lightly. "I'm sorry – that came out in entirely the wrong way," he apologises. "It's just, Harry's asked me to go for a drink with him tonight, and I agreed. Sorry." Her face melts into a dimpling smile at Malcolm's endearing anxiety, and she realises how selfish she's being. "Oh – don't be silly, Malcolm. How you spend your time is none of my business, whether you're drinking with my husband or not," she murmurs. Then, noticing her mistake, she corrects herself, "My ex-husband." She gives a sigh of bitter laughter, and runs a hand through her glossy brown curls. "God, it sounds so strange," she admits.

Malcolm frowns at her. "In what way?" he prods, ignoring the hope for Harry's sake that is swelling like a balloon in his chest. Ruth shrugs and sets her mug down on the coffee table. At last, in a tremulous voice, she explains, "I just thought that if ever Harry and I... if ever we got married, we'd be the ones still going strong in our seventies. Or Harry's seventies, anyway." Malcolm chuckles softly, and Ruth's mouth half-twitches. Then she shakes her head, looking lost and defeated. "And look how long we lasted – six months. Six sorry months. We even argued on the bloody honeymoon, Malcolm!" Hesitantly, Malcolm wraps an arm around her shoulders, and reminds her gently, "These things happen. Just because you quarrel, doesn't mean you don't love each other..."

She looks up at him, blue eyes filled with desperation. "Normally I'd believe you, Malcolm," she says solemnly. "But this time I think we've got ourselves into a tangle even Harry can't undo."

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As he enters the living room again that night, all ready to go out, he wonders whether he should ring Harry and cancel. "Ruth – I'm off now," he smiles. She looks up from her book, and nods peaceably. "Right. Have a good time." His smile fades and he frowns down at her.

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" he asks anxiously. She rolls her eyes at his concern, and nods again, this time emphatically. "Of course. Don't worry," she orders. "I have the Red Shoes on DVD, a bottle of Vimto and some chunky peanut butter – the perfect evening." Malcolm forces a laugh at her feeble joke, and then says awkwardly, "Well, as they say – don't wait up!" She groans at the incongruity of the man and the maxim, and throws a cushion at him. "Oh, Malcolm – just go out and enjoy yourself."

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The fact that they are meeting at the George shows Malcolm that Harry hasn't had the nerve to go back to the Sussex house. He's probably staying at his London club, or worse in one of the rooms in Thames House reserved for high-ranking on-call officers. "Malcolm!" Harry greets him wearily, trying and failing to smile. They shake hands. "Hello, Harry."

They order their drinks, a double malt for Harry and half a pint for Malcolm, and find a table in a quieter area of the George, away from the usual early evening rabble. "How is she, Malcolm?" Harry asks quietly, looking older and more tired than Malcolm has ever seen him. To anyone else, the question would have seemed odd, considering that hardly a day has gone by when Harry and Ruth haven't seen each other, but Malcolm merely frowns pityingly, and answers simply, "Tired. Unhappy. Looking for a way out."

Harry groans and passes a hand over his lined face. "She told you about the decommission papers, I take it."

"Yes." Harry can tell that Malcolm is doing his best to remain impartial, out of loyalty to both of them, and this is a relief. If he'd been having this conversation with Beth, she would have been ranting by now, fiercely defending her former flatmate and giving Harry all the unpleasant epithets under the sun. He looks up pleadingly, begging for his friend's understanding. "Malcolm, I can't let her go. It was difficult the last time – it'll be damn near impossible now." He takes a large swig of his whisky.

"She misses you too, you know," Malcolm informs him, thinking of all the nights he's passed Ruth's door and paused, listening to the sound of her crying into her pillow. Harry raises a single eyebrow in a mark of extreme disdain. "Of course – that's why she's asking for a divorce," he retorts sardonically. Malcolm tuts and Harry's face relaxes again.

"You know what she's like," Malcolm sighs impatiently. "As emotionally incompetent as the pair of us put together. She's scared. She told me she didn't want to be the victim in all this."

Harry's brown eyes widen in shock. "Are you trying to tell me that she thought _I_ was going to divorce _her_?" he inquires in stunned accents. Malcolm sits back, with the evident air of a man revealing the obvious to someone criminally obtuse. "She _idolises_ you, Harry," he states triumphantly. "Always has done. That's why all the Albany business hurt her so much at first – because she believed that you had principles that you would stick to. She's always thought that there was no way you'd ever want her..."

"_What_?" Harry cries, face reddening. "How could she think that? Why hasn't she ever told me any of this?" _Why is it that I know so little of what she's thinking and feeling?_ Malcolm shrugs his shoulders and replies, "Because you're you and she's herself." Which is true, Harry realises. Over the years, their own personalities have held them back – Harry's lack of tact and timing and his utter inability to say anything the right way, and Ruth's fear and stubbornness... He drums his fingers on the table in frustration.

"I've never made any secret of the fact that I think she's far too good for me. She knows that," he argues firmly. Surely Ruth can't be so insecure that she still doubts him, doubts his feelings? Malcolm raises both hands in surrender. "Harry, she loves you and I'm sure she wants to sort this out, but she thinks you're beyond help," he explains softly. Harry nods – her attempts to leave the Service have proved that much – and asks, "So what do you suggest I do?"

Malcolm sips his drink. "Just leave things to me," he advises soothingly. "I'll think of something." Harry downs the rest of his malt in one. "Alright, Malcolm," he agrees. "I've tried everything _I _can think of."

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**9.40 am 13****th**** June 2011 **

Monday morning, despite the gloriousness of the summer weather, holds possibly the worst task Harry has had to perform as Head of Section D. He marches purposefully across the Grid, and halts at his wife's desk, waiting for her to finish her file. At last, he asks impatiently, "Ruth?" She stiffens slightly and then looks up, maintaining an ambivalent expression for the sake of the eager eyes and ears she knows will be tuned on to her and Harry. "Yes?" she replies softly. Harry looks as if he is about to speak, but instead thrusts a sheaf of papers at her. She glances down at them, and then her eyes widen as she realises what they are.

Her decommission papers. Signed, and ready to be delivered. She swallows. "Thank you, Harry. I – " He cuts her off with a glare.

"Don't," he spits harshly. "I don't want your gratitude. Not for this." Her blue eyes fill with hurt. "Harry..." she whispers tearfully.

He turns and walks away.

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**12.30 am 13****th**** June 2011 **

Monday isn't Wes Carter's favourite day of the week either, so he's surprised and glad when his phone rings at lunchtime. He answers immediately. "Wes?" asks the caller. Wes frowns, confused. "Malcolm? Is that you?" Uncle Harry rings him on a regular basis, and he sometimes speaks to Aunt Ruth when he's having trouble with Latin or Greek, but he doesn't remember the last time he received a call from Malcolm. Malcolm beams as he sits down on the sofa, pleased to hear how much Wes' voice is becoming like Adam's.

"How are you, old chap?" Malcolm asks. The corner of Wes' mouth tilts up into a smile at the old fashioned expression, and he replies, "Alright. What's up?" Malcolm takes a breath, wondering how best to approach the situation. At last, he says, "Just wondering how that software on your computer was getting along."

Wes' smile becomes wider. "Excellent, thanks," he replies. Then, mischievously, he adds, "The head still hasn't worked out how his emails are being intercepted, anyway..." Malcolm's eyes widen and he almost drops the phone in shock. "What?" he half-shouts. "Wesley Carter, that software was intended to intercept encrypted cheats on computer games only!" Then, professional curiosity overcoming righteous indignation, he inquires, "How the devil did you manage to do that with it?"

Wes rolls his eyes and throws himself down on the grass in a corner of the school playing fields. "I watched you install it, remember," he reminds Malcolm. "And then I had a mess about with it, and it just... happened." Malcolm purses his lips disapprovingly. Things never just 'happened' to any of the Carters. Making a mental note to warn Harry of Wes' new hobby, he admonishes him sternly, "You are your father's son inside and out, Wes. But, please, would you mind restricting the software to its intended use?"

Wes shrugs his shoulders with the easy confidence of a popular fifteen year old. "If you say so, Malcolm." Then, wondering why Malcolm has really called, he prompts him, "There's something else, isn't there?" Malcolm shakes his head in wonderment.

Wes Carter is too bright for his own good. "Yes," he admits. "I suppose you've heard about Harry and Ruth?" Wes' smile fades rapidly. Uncle Harry and Aunt Ruth are the couple he would have ranked least likely to get divorced, ever. The news hadn't been broken to him in a particularly sensitive way either – just a few words from Uncle Harry the last time they had seen each other. "Yeah," he sighs. "Uncle Harry came to see my rugby match the other day and he told me what was going on. How's Aunt Ruth? Uncle Harry wouldn't tell me anything other than the cold facts."

"Pretty cut up, too," Malcolm informs him. Then, in an off-hand voice, he adds, "And with a baby on the way as well..." Wes picks up his meaning immediately, one of the many wonderful things about bright teenagers. "Perhaps we could... meddle a bit," he suggests. Malcolm hides a smile, and tells him in mock-stern tones, "We never meddle, Wes. However, we occasionally... give people a little push in the right direction."

On the field, young Mr Carter's grin has returned in full health. "I see. A little push. Leave it to me, Malcolm."

"Good lad."


	14. The Sting

**AN: A double update...**

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**14****th**** June 2011**

It's been a tiring day, quite apart from anything else, so the Head of Section D can be excused if he isn't in the best of moods. He's alone on the Grid late at night, the first time in years that this has been the case. Usually Ruth... He stops mid-thought, shying away from the thought of more pain. For the first time he can remember, Ruth has been the first to leave the Grid. If only she had left work undone. Then he would have been perfectly within his rights as her commanding officer to call her back to the Grid. But he's been through everything with a fine toothcomb and he can't find a hair out of place. All reports have been filed, all paperwork signed back into Registry, all audio transcripts rated in relation to their urgency... He scowls and utters a grunt of impatience as the phone on his desk rings. "Harry Pearce speaking," he snaps, and instantly regrets it as he realises who is on the other line.

"Uncle Harry?" a somewhat nervous voice asks. "It's Wes." Harry smiles a little sadly – Wes is sounding more and more like Adam every time they speak. He's zealously maintained contact with Wesley Carter ever since Adam's death, and flatters himself that he's become a sort of mentor for him, a figure that modern child psychologists would irritatingly label, "a positive male role model." Dare he say it, he's been a better father figure to Wes than he was to Graham... Sighing, he answers, "Sorry, Wes. What can I do for you?"

In his room at boarding school, Wes Carter grins and explains, "I'm going to see Mum and Dad on Saturday – will you come with me?" Harry sits up straight at his desk. A visit to a cemetery is hardly the best remedy for the mood of depression that is hanging around him currently, but he has always considered it his duty to take Wes on these trips. It's been several years since he and Wes had the chat about his parents' occupations – quietly, privately, with a stern admonishment to keep his newfound knowledge to himself – and Harry wonders in horror whether Wes wants to see him to discuss following the same route. He immediately makes up his mind to forbid it, and speak to the DG about blocking any future applications. Aloud, he tells his caller, "Of course – I'd like that, Wes." Then looking at his watch, and realising the time, he asks curiously, "Shouldn't you be asleep, young man? When I was a lad, Wednesday was a school night, and eleven o'clock was well past lights out!"

Rolling his eyes, Wes gives a low groan, and tells Harry, "I'll meet you at the cemetery about eleven, OK?" The line goes dead, and Harry sets the phone down, chuckling softly. Watching Wes grow up is rather like going back in time and spying on his father. The same mischief and disregard for rules that characterised Adam are evident in Wes. "God help us," he says.

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**15****th**** June 2011**

Ruth is already running late for work when the phone rings, so she ignores it and carries on zipping up her boots, while Malcolm hurries to answer it. A moment later, he reappears in the living room and explains, "Ruth, it's Wes for you. He says it's rather urgent." She half-groans, but for some reason she feels rebellious enough to want to be late for work, so she goes to answer it.

"Auntie Ruth?" Her heart warms at the sound of Wes' speaking her nickname. Of course, she isn't his real aunt, and it's a title she's been given mainly because of her close association with "Uncle Harry", but she smiles anyway. Teenage boys can sometimes be surprisingly child-like. "Wes. Anything wrong?" she replies. If he's stuck on Ovid, the literature he's studying for GCSE Latin, again, she's tempted to give him another tutorial over the phone then and there, and worry about Harry's wrath later. The way things have been at work lately, classics seems a much more favourable option. So Wes's answer disappoints her somewhat. "Nothing. I just wanted to tell you, I'm going to see Mum and Dad on Saturday – will you come with me?"

Ruth raises her eyebrows in surprise, feeling slightly flattered. Wes has never asked her for something like this before, and his request makes her think, with a touch of sad nostalgia, about the relationship she used to have with Nico. She had been so happy the first time he had asked her to read him a bedtime story, and his repeated insistence in later years that only she could read any stories to his satisfaction had always given her a warm feeling in her heart. And now she is having her own child, and everything is so much more complicated. "Me?" she asks nervously. Then, reluctant to mention his name: "Doesn't Harry usually go with you?"

She senses Wes' obvious disappointment even over the phone. "He can't come," he mutters dolefully, and Ruth feels a sudden, unwarranted upsurge of anger toward Harry. Doubtless some Whitehall meeting or interesting file would be filling his time. Wes raises his voice slightly in the manner of a pleading child. "And you worked with them too, and I haven't seen you in ages." As an afterthought, he grins, "I want to see how big you've got." Ruth gasps, caught between indignation and amusement. "How big - ? Wesley Carter, you cheeky little sod!"

Wes chortles. "Will you come then?" Ruth sighs the long-suffering sigh well used by any acquaintance of young Mr Carter, and eventually tells him, "Alright." Wes punches the air in silent triumph, earning several odd looks from a group of sixth-formers strolling by. "I'll meet you at the cemetery about eleven, OK?"

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**18****th**** June 2011**

Ruth arrives at the cemetery twenty minutes early, and loiters awkwardly outside until five past eleven. Then, wondering if Wes is waiting for her at the grave, she enters and makes her way up the path she's trodden only twice before – once at Fiona's funeral, and the second time with Adam when he hadn't felt able to cope with a visit alone. As she approaches the grave, she sees a figure bent there, laying some flowers. She quickens her stride, but as the figure straightens, she realises that the broad shoulders, dark overcoat and curly brown hair don't belong to Wes. It's Harry. Harry is there. She and Harry are alone together, with no third party to break the inevitable tension. It's her worst nightmare, and as the panic threatens to take over, Ruth backs slowly away, determined to wait along the path for Wes and thus avoid any further quarrel with her soon to be ex-husband. Her boot lands clumsily on a branch and it breaks under her foot with a regrettably audible crunch.

Harry turns instantly at the noise and his brown eyes widen in astonishment. "Ruth!" Caught, she has no choice but to advance towards him, unable to meet his questioning gaze. She feels unwarranted guilt, as though she has disturbed a very private moment, and wonders fleetingly why he is here, now of all times. "Hello, Harry," she murmurs quietly. She can't help noticing that he's wearing grey trousers and her favourite blue shirt, the one she once donned on their honeymoon, just to wallow in the feel and smell of him. Her face darkens as her mind touches on these thoughts that she shouldn't be thinking, and Harry takes a step nearer, bending his head to look closer into her face.

"Ruth... what are you doing here?" he asks wearily. She draws herself up, slightly irritated by his tone. She has as much right to be here as he does! Harry shuffles from one foot to the other, trying desperately to quell the suspicion that her presence here is the sick jest of some celestial trickster. Ruth replies quickly, almost as though she wants to avoid conversation. "I'm meeting Wes – he asked me to come with him to see to Adam and Fiona's grave..." Her voice trails off, and an adorable crease appears between her eyebrows as she frowns. "Why are you laughing?" she demands. And it's true – Harry has started to chuckle, the same Muttley laugh that he uttered on her first day on the Grid, a wheezing chuckle that she would find inordinately vexing in any other person.

Harry makes an effort to straighten his face, and reassures her, "Not at you, sweetheart." She chooses to ignore the term of endearment, even though she flushes slightly to hear him use it. "I think we've been set up," he explains. "Wes called the other day, and asked me the same thing." It is Ruth's turn to smile now, a shy effort, half covered by the hand she raises to her lips to hide it. He notices with a thrill of desire that she is still wearing her engagement ring, even though her wedding ring is in his possession. In his pocket, in fact... "That boy... he's so like Adam, it's untrue," she states wryly. She is too lost in reminiscences to notice that Harry has stepped even closer. "Hmm," he whispers, his lips inches from hers. "Ruth..." Her name escapes him as gently as the rushing of a summer breeze through trees, but she still flinches at the sound of such passion in his deep voice.

"Don't, Harry," she snaps, her tranquillity shattered. She can't allow herself to get sucked into this dysfunctional situation again. She won't start another ten years of wishing and hoping and waiting and disappointment. "I don't want to start another argument. Not here," she murmurs, stepping back. Harry steps with her, face neutral. "Well," he suggests calmly, "let me take you for a coffee, and then you can argue with me all you want."

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**AN: Next chapter, Harry and Ruth have a chat...**


	15. It's Good To Talk

**18****th**** June 2011**

Somehow he manages to manhandle her to a coffee shop, so close that she almost thinks he's planned this whole meeting. But she still has enough grudging faith in his integrity to discount that idea almost as soon as it comes. He sits her down at a table, and fetches them both coffees, decaff for Ruth. They sit and fiddle with their cups awkwardly for a few moments, and then Harry asks, "How are you?" He's seen her nearly every day since she left, so it's a foolish question to ask, just as it was foolish to inquire about her health to Malcolm. But they've been so distant, so detached from each other that to Harry it seems perfectly rational. Ruth doesn't seem to think there's anything unusual in it either.

She looks out of the window, and shrugs, "Well. Malcolm's been... very understanding." He smiles – Malcolm is never anything but understanding, especially where Ruth is concerned. She's the sister he never had, a sort of intellectual soul mate, the only one who ever smiles at his awful knock-knock jokes, or understands his obscure references to Shakespeare and Ovid. Quietly he adds, "And the baby?" He is dreading the birth of their child now, for it will add yet another complication to their relationship. Their earlier conversation on the subject has only served to make him realise that she is truly intent on breaking all connection with him, baby or no...

Ruth is still avoiding his eyes as she answers. "Fine – I've got a final scan on the ninth, if you want to come." The last part of her sentence makes the bottom drop out of his stomach. She sounds as though she expects him to refuse, as if he was the one who left her. _Them_. He seizes her hand from where it lies on the table and clenches it tight. _Now_ she is looking at him. "Of course I'll come!" he half-shouts, exasperated. Several of the cafe's other occupants shoot them surprised glances, and he lowers his voice. "Hell's bells, Ruth, you're acting like we're already divorced!" She shoots him a cold glare as she replies. "Well, it's nearly true, isn't it?" His eyes darken at her reference to his impending doom, and she queries suddenly, "What did you expect me to do, Harry? Sooner or later one of us was going to get tired of this limbo..." Ruth's voice is sad, but in his anger Harry does not notice, or care. "Not me," he insists vehemently. She makes a noise of disbelief in her throat, and he releases her hand. Quietly, earnestly, he sighs, "Ruth, I want you to come back home. Whatever problems we have, whatever issues, we can work them out, _together_."

Her face is creased with anxiety, and she is showing the look he secretly recognises as signifying her readiness to run. "Harry..." she protests, tears welling in her eyes. He leans forward, wanting to make her understand. "Just listen to me," he pleads. "I'm _not_ going to be the same father I was to Catherine and Graham. I'm _not_ going to be the same husband I was to Jane. I want us to be a proper family." She swallows, and cries, "Yes – at any cost!" She balls her hand into a fist and thumps her heart with it to emphasise her next words. "I _love_ working, Harry, and as much as I want to be a wife and mother, you can't expect me to just drop everything and – "

One of them has to be rational. He interrupts her, sensing the beginnings of a rant. "I'm not asking you to! I merely suggested that one of us should consider reducing our hours or getting out of the service to provide a stable home life for our child. And now, you're doing that anyway." She folds her arms in disapproval. He sighs deeply. "Please, Ruth. Come home." Harry rests a hand over his eyes in weariness, so he doesn't see her expression. But he hears the rustle of her clothes as she rises up out of her chair. And he feels the soft, apologetic brush of her hand against his brown curls. And he definitely hears her breathe her final words into his ear as she passes. "It isn't about that anymore..." And then, breaking his heart, "I'm sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry."

* * *

By the time she gets back to Malcolm's, having paid the taxi driver, she is crying so hard she can barely see the lock on the front door to open it. Malcolm isn't at home, for which she is eternally glad. He must still be at choir practice. He's tried to get her to go along with him a few times now, as an aid to recovery, but she's refused. Singing would involve more energy than she thinks she can muster at present. Ruth tries to stay calm. She tries to walk through to the kitchen. She'll put the kettle on for when Malcolm gets back.

Halfway there, she dissolves utterly, and sinks down onto the living room floor, drawing her knees up to her pregnancy bump, and burying her face in her folded arms. A few short months ago, everything had been so straightforward. After years of things not said and misread signals and foolish mistakes, she and Harry had finally achieved their happy ending. They had been expectant parents. Now, everything has been destroyed and can never be restored. For weeks, she's managed to cling onto this front, this pretence that nothing is wrong, that she isn't hurting. In the midst of this awful pain, she's managed to retreat behind her usual veil of efficiency and stave off the outburst she has always known was coming.

And it has arrived. Seeing Harry today, talking frankly, has broken down the floodgates of her grief. Ruth knows she's lost her chance. She's consigned herself to working in Oxford, trying to raise her child alone, occasionally seeing Harry when he can find the time to visit their baby. For the first time in many years, Ruth admits to herself that she's frightened. No, frightened is the wrong word. Absolutely bloody terrified. She needs Harry. The one thing she can't have...

Malcolm comes back hours, days, weeks later, and finds her in the same position. Ruth only realises he's there when he gently tugs her arms away from her face and kneels on the floor beside her. "Ruth? Are you hurt?" She knows she should put her mask back in place, tell Malcolm that she's fine, but she can't. Shaking her head, she throws her arms around her shocked friend's neck and bursts once again into tears.

It takes him an hour to get her into a chair, a further hour to persuade her to have a glass of water, and a third hour to find out the reason for her collapse. Ruth tells him quietly, occasionally interrupted by tears that she doesn't try to prevent, and Malcolm feels like he's been introduced to a whole new world. In all the weeks she's been living here, they haven't spoken this frankly. She tells him lots of things – about Harry, about herself, about the pair of them together, in the past and the present. The hours pass, and darkness falls, but neither notices. He always knew Ruth to be a woman of deep feeling, but the depth of emotion here astounds him.

"And I love him, Malcolm, and I've pushed him away again, and I realised in the taxi that I need him so much..." she finishes at last. Malcolm squeezes her shoulders softly and murmurs, "Then tell him." She stares up at him.

"You don't think it's too late?"

"With you and Harry, I don't think it will ever be too late."

* * *

She doesn't think anyone is in. There are no lights on that are visible from the outside of the house, anyway. She isn't even sure if he'll have come back here, to the Sussex house, with all its memories of their marriage. Ruth hesitates for a moment, and then pays the taxi driver. What she'll do if Harry sends her away, she doesn't know. Scarlett, sitting on the stairs out of the way, looks up and whines in relief when Ruth enters. "Hi, girl. Where's your fool of a master?" she asks quietly. To her surprise, he has not gone to bed. Ruth can see his silhouette from the open hall door. She enters the living room so quietly that he doesn't even hear her until she speaks.

"Hello." His head jerks up, and in the half-light, she can see him frowning in disbelief. He's slumped in his favourite armchair, an empty bottle of whisky and a tumbler on the floor beside him. "Ruth?" She smiles sadly and advances toward him, turning on the light as she does so.

"Mmm. I wanted us to talk," she murmurs. Harry nods slowly, trying to force his addled brain to comprehend her words. "Are you real?" he mumbles curiously. Then, seeing her brow crease in confusion, he adds, "Sorry, I've drunk rather more whisky than I should have done, so I'm a little less than sober..."

All thoughts of talking seriously with him vanish. For tonight, it is enough that they are here, together. She kneels down beside the chair and kisses him softly on his unshaven cheek. "Real enough for you?" He sighs deeply in happiness. He's missed this feeling, and even if she's only here because she pities him, he's glad. "Mmm." He hasn't changed out of the clothes he was wearing at the cemetery, she notices, and his eyes are red-rimmed as though he's been crying. A lump forms in her throat. Ruth takes his hands in hers and winces at their icy feel. "God, Harry, you're freezing!" she exclaims, shocked at the way he's just sat here, allowing himself to get into this state. Guilt floods her as she realises that her words and actions have caused this. She chafes his hands together between her own, trying to create some warmth.

"Sorry, darling." He sounds so vulnerable and tired and _old_; Ruth's heart cracks at the pleading look in his eyes.

"I wasn't asking for an apology," she admonishes him gently, helping him to his feet. "Come on, let's get you to bed." As she leads him toward the stairs, he murmurs softly, "Ruth?"

"Yes, Harry?" she asks, her voice carefully neutral.

"Thank you for coming," he whispers.

Ruth shakes her head in exasperation, and she can't hide the emotion when she speaks again. "Impossible man."

Once Harry is in bed, asleep, Ruth returns to the sitting room and clears away the debris of Harry's whisky bottle and tumbler. As she does so, her hand catches a well-thumbed book on the coffee table and knocks it to the floor. _The Poems of Catullus_. She smiles softly. Only her husband would drown his sorrows with a combination of alcohol and Latin love poetry. The book has fallen open at poem eight, as if this particular page has been examined more than once in the recent past. Her face furrows in curiosity as she notices that certain lines have been underlined faintly with pencil, and she can't help glancing at them.

"_Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire,_

_et quod vides perisse perditum ducas..."_

_Wretched Catullus, you must cease to be foolish; and what you see is lost, lost you must reckon..._

"_nec quae fugit sectare, nec miser vive,_

_sed obstinata mente perfer, obdura._

_vale puella..."_

_Nor must you follow she who has fled, nor live miserably, but persevere with a firm mind, endure. Goodbye sweetheart..._

The significance of the lines does not escape her, and she has to swallow back tears at the image of Harry sitting here alone reading this poem and believing her to be lost to him forever. Involuntarily, she glances towards the stairs, whence the muted sound of Harry's snoring can be heard, and promises him silently that he will never have to do so again.

She is home.

* * *

**AN: Fluff ahoy from now on... x**


	16. Promises, Promises

**AN: Thanks for your reviews and continuing support... Now, as promised, some fluff... x**

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* * *

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**19****th**** June 2011**

Harry opens his eyes to find that he is lying in his own bed, fully dressed apart from his trousers and socks. He frowns and half sits up, trying to work out how in the world he got here, when for the past few nights he has remained awake downstairs in his armchair. "Good morning," she whispers from the corner of the room, and his memory comes flooding back.

He sits up properly in bed and she rises from her seat on the green ottoman. "Ruth..." he smiles softly. She perches herself on the edge of the bed and anxiety clouds her expression. "How do you feel?" she asks, eyes lingering on his unshaven cheeks and bleary eyes. He takes a moment to think before replying. His head is pulsing slightly – doubtless the result of the whisky he'd been consuming before she arrived – but he's had worse hangovers. "Alright," he reassures her, grimacing a little at the gravelly tone of his voice. "Nothing that a shower, breakfast and some fresh air won't cure." He panics as he realises what he's said, and begins to babble, "That isn't to say I'm asking you to – I'll be fine... I mean." Ruth raises her eyebrows and interrupts him calmly. "Get yourself sorted and I'll see about some food."

By the time Harry has showered and made himself presentable, Ruth has made them both breakfast – toast and a salad made from what she's managed to salvage from their fruit bowl. Harry isn't the best person to ask about nutrition or square meals, and it's clear that he hasn't been keeping the cupboards properly stocked. He appears in a pale green shirt and black jeans, clean-shaven and holding a tissue against a cut on his lower cheek. Ruth hides a smile – for a man who's worked for the security services for most of his adult life, Harry can be unbelievably clumsy sometimes. He helps her set the table and pours glasses of orange juice for them both. They eat in silence, Harry sneaking glances across the table at Ruth every so often, as if afraid that she's some sort of glorious delusion. He can't quite believe that she's here, in their house, in their kitchen, eating breakfast with him.

When they have eaten, Ruth fetches their coats. As Harry reaches for his, his hand brushes Ruth's by accident. But she doesn't pull away. To his surprise, she picks it up and wraps her own hand over it firmly. He looks away, convinced that if he draws attention to it, she'll withdraw, embarrassed, or worse still, angry.

They walk down into the village and continue until they reach their bench in the deserted park and sit down. For a while, they sit and watch the sun beam down on the grass and verdant trees, unable to find the words for what they want to say. Ruth is the first to break their silence. "I've missed you very much, Harry," she whispers, her voice catching. He wants to take her in his arms and never let her go again, but he forces himself to remember his long-practiced self-control, and instead merely replies, "I know. I've missed you too." The barriers suddenly break down and he bursts out, "God, I never wanted to feel like this again, Ruth – not after you left the first time..."

Ruth swallows down a choking sob. Harry waits patiently for her to regain control. At last, she announces nonchalantly, "Well, that's that. We can't get divorced." The corners of Harry's mouth quirk up into a smile, and he replies wryly, "It seems not. Are you coming home, then?" Ruth takes a deep breath and looks into his eyes, seeing the love and, dare she say it, desperation there. She bites her lip, and her hands are twisting themselves into knots in her lap, a sure sign of anxiety. Harry picks them up and carefully, one by one, kisses them. His touch gives her the confidence to answer him. "Yes. That is... if you'll have me."

He lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding and pulls her gently into a hug, cradling her head against the wide silk lapel of his overcoat. Exasperated, he sighs, "Silly old girl! Of course I will." She sniffs and wraps her arms around his neck, hoisting herself further along the bench in his direction. They sit like this for some time, Ruth enjoying the all too well remembered sensation of being held by Harry. At last she sits up and looks him in the eye, still worried. "But what are we going to do, Harry?" she asks nervously. At Harry's frown of incomprehension, she elaborates, "I mean – the reason for all this hasn't gone away. We still had that argument, and everything went wrong..."

He can see her starting to panic. Her voice is rising in pitch with every word. She's overwhelmed. "Are you still going to Oxford?" he asks softly. Ruth takes a shuddering breath, eyes firmly closed and then nods once. "Yes. I'm sorry – but I want this, Harry. I don't want to live my life like this anymore." She opens her eyes to find Harry smiling at her. "You haven't got to apologise. We just have to work something out," he encourages her reasonably. She nods, a frown appearing in the middle of her forehead, between her blue-green eyes.

He senses her doubts before she even has chance to say any more and raises a hand to silence her. "I'll do whatever it takes for us to find a solution to this, Ruth," he insists firmly. He can't possibly let her go again. She is infinitely more important than anything else. "I'll even leave the Service, and move to bloody Oxford myself if it means having you and the baby with me all the time." Ruth sees the determination in his beautiful hazel eyes, and says soothingly, "I know. But you don't have to give up your job. We have a couple of months until the baby arrives. We don't have to make a decision right now." She taps out a rhythm on the back of his hand, wondering how to proceed. She needs to know that things will be different this time. She needs to know that theirs will be a proper marriage, a collaboration. They are a team on the Grid, and always have been. It is only their personal relationship that is difficult... At last, she sighs, "I'm just asking for us to discuss things. Anything. Everything. Promise me, Harry."

He nods immediately and grips her hands more tightly. "I promise," he tells her earnestly. He looks down at their conjoined hands and an impatient noise escapes him. She waits in silence for him to tell her what is troubling him, knowing that it will do no good to press him for an immediate answer. "Ruth," he admits at last, "I'm finding this difficult. Being married, I mean." Ruth's jaw drops and her eyes widen almost comically. "Difficult? But you've already been – " she gapes. Harry shakes his head sadly, interrupting her mid-sentence. Then he bows his head, releases her hands and begins to speak to his knees, in that expressionless voice that always breaks her heart – the same voice he used when Jo and, more recently, Ros died, the voice he used when he returned from that rooftop with the news of Lucas' suicide, the voice that tells her he's on autopilot, just functioning, trying to get the words out before he breaks down.

"When Jane and I were married, I was away a lot of the time. When I was at home, we ate, slept... and argued. There was never time for in-depth discussions about anything. We made decisions separately, without reference to the other person. God, I wasn't even around enough to have a hand in naming our children! It was a bad habit, and I'm afraid I'm reverting back to it." Ruth's hands unconsciously rise up to cover her mouth in horror and pity for this man she has loved for so long. Suddenly everything makes sense. "Oh, Harry..." she breathes.

He shakes his shoulders and looks at her. His brown eyes are filled with tears he's trying not to let fall. "It's alright," he murmurs. She hesitantly grazes his cheek with her palm and he closes his eyes. It's like the moment on the docks all those years ago, when they said goodbye – the same sadness, the same longing. "I love you, Ruth," he whispers brokenly. "And I want a proper marriage this time around. I just need you to be patient with me, and tell me when I'm going about it the wrong way." His hand finds hers, cupped against his cheek, and holds it there. "Promise me, Ruth," he begs fiercely.

"I promise." Her voice is quivering with held back tears, and she feels Harry sigh as though released from a great burden as the words leave her mouth. "Thank you," he replies quietly. She leans forward and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. Then his lips find hers and all is lost for long minutes. They break apart and sit gazing at each other. Harry reaches into his pocket and brings out something in his fist. Slowly he turns his hand over and opens it, so Ruth can see her wedding ring lying there. He looks down at her, a silent question in his eyes. She nods, and he gently slides the ring back onto her finger. The cool gold greets her finger like a long-lost friend. A single tear makes its way down Harry's cheek, but Ruth makes no comment on it.

A moment more and he rises, surreptitiously swiping at his damp eyes. Briskly, he tells her, "Now, Lady Pearce, I'm going to fetch your stuff from Malcolm's before you change your mind again." He's trying to lighten the moment, and Ruth knows it, but she can't help reassuring him softly as she slips her slight hand into his larger one. "I've never changed my mind about us, Harry."


	17. Payment In Kind

**20****th**** June 2011**

Ruth wakes to the glorious feel of Harry kissing her neck. "Rise and shine, Lady Pearce," he murmurs, his voice a rumble against her collarbone. She shivers happily. "The HS wants us in for a meeting this morning," he adds. She opens her eyes, and sees that he is leaning over her, already fully dressed, and holding his mobile in one hand. She groans and shades her eyes from the light flooding in from the curtains. "Both of us?" she queries tiredly.

Harry shrugs apologetically. "Yes. I'll give Mike a call and let him know you're here." His face breaks into a hesitant smile, which Ruth returns. "Nowhere else I'd rather be..." she murmurs shyly.

* * *

They arrive half an hour early at the Home Office, a miracle in the London rush hour. As he helps her out of the car, Harry's phone rings. He checks the display quickly and groans. "It's Alec. Probably some national crisis... Why don't you go in ahead? This could take a while." She nods and picks up her handbag from the car seat. "Alright." She kisses his cheek and walks into the salubrious lobby. The secretary on reception smiles and nods her through quickly, and Ruth makes for the lift. She usually uses the stairs, but her pregnancy is making any significant amount of exercise rather exhausting. For once, she reasons, she's allowed to be lazy.

The lift is empty, but as she exits it, she hears footsteps approaching, from the direction of the Home Secretary's Office. Looking up, she freezes in horror, praying that she's dreaming. Her head is suddenly swimming and her legs tremble as she sees a face that has haunted her nightmares for five years. Oliver Mace is walking down the corridor towards her. He catches sight of Ruth immediately and a sadistic smile twists his lips. He halts in front of her. "Hello, Ms Evershed," he smirks. "It's been a long time." He speaks as though they're old friends, that it wasn't his fault that she had to leave Harry for all those years, wasn't his fault that she met George and killed him...

"Not long enough," she tells him curtly, trying to side step him. But he rests his arm casually against the wall in front of her, blocking her way with the air of a large cat that has just found a baby mouse to torture. "That's not very pleasant now, is it?" he tuts silkily. Then he catches sight of the ring on her finger, and claps a hand to his forehead. "But I'd forgotten – it's not Ms Evershed any more. Marriage to Harry Pearce – you deserve the VC at the very least. Violent temper..." Mace is trying to goad her, and Ruth has just enough presence of mind left to close her mouth against the thousand insults that she could throw at him. "Excuse me," she insists coldly, and finally succeeds in pushing past him.

She has barely taken two steps away from him, however, when she hears him call mockingly, "How was Cyprus? Too hot? Too... _lonely_?" Bristling with anger, Ruth whips around. How _dare_ he mention Cyprus? "You – " she begins wrathfully, but whatever expletive she had been about to hurl at Mace is halted by the appearance of Harry from the lift. He marches straight past Mace to stand at Ruth's shoulder. "Everything alright, darling?" he inquires lightly. Mace interrupts before Ruth can reply. "I was just asking your wife about her... European excursion," he explains gloatingly. Harry merely blinks, but Ruth feels his arms tense next to her. Controlling himself with an effort, he smiles, quite cheerfully, "I see. How's the arm, Oliver? Still sore?"

For some reason, unknown to Ruth, Mace pales rapidly. A self-satisfied smirk plays around Harry's lips. Taking Ruth's arm, he guides her away. Away from Mace, Harry's self-control crumbles rapidly. Scowling, he asks out loud, "What in God's name is he doing back here? Did he – are you – " He falls silent, and Ruth lays her palm to his suddenly warm cheek to soothe him. "Shh, shh," she whispers. "I'm fine. I'm fine." Harry snorts in disgust, and continues, as if he hasn't heard her speak, "He makes me wonder why I bother with this job, this country..." Ruth decides it's time to put a stop to all of this before Harry degenerates into a full-blown rant. "You bother because, sometimes, no one else will. And because you're a good man, with principles," she tells him, firmly and sensibly. Harry sighs and his shoulders sag as the fight leaves him. Passing a weary hand over his forehead, he murmurs, "Oh, Ruth. I don't know what I'd do without you." Looking back down the corridor, from where Mace has now disappeared, his hazel eyes darken again. "But Mace – I swear if I ever see him again..." His hand forms a fist, and Ruth shakes her head.

They sit down in silence outside the Home Secretary's door, and after a moment, Ruth changes the subject. "What was all that about, anyway?" she asks, curiously. Harry frowns as he checks through a file he's just removed from his briefcase, and does not answer immediately. "Sorry?" he asks absently. Ruth clicks her tongue in impatience, and elaborates, "When you asked him how his arm was. What was all that about?" There is a very long, uncomfortable pause, and Ruth's heart stops as she wonders what on earth Harry has done. At last, Harry coughs and admits, "Ah... At one time, I may have lost my temper and found myself slashing his arm open with a wine glass at his club..."

Shock makes her voice ascend an octave. "You did _what_? When?" Ruth knows Harry has ruthlessly shot terrorists and traitors at point blank range, but somehow she has never imagined Harry to be the sort of man to initiate brawls in gentlemen's clubs. So it is with astonishment that she listens as Harry explains rationally, "Roughly around the time I found out he was trying to frame the woman I loved for murder, just to get to me. Forgive me if I wasn't on my very best behaviour, darling..." Vaguely, her mind digs up a recollection in Zaf's voice: _"Harry's been arrested... He's attacked Mace..."_ How was it that she had never bothered to find out the details?

She squeezes his arm softly, tears welling up. "Thank you." Confused, Harry looks down at her, and asks bluntly, "What for? It didn't achieve anything..." Ruth can't speak for a moment, but at last she informs him, "For being my gallant knight in shining armour... Even when I didn't want you to be... Oh!" Her face changes, and her expression is so new to him that it sends a thousand different scenarios shooting through his mind, all of them horrid and terrifying. He grips her arm in concern. "What is it?" he demands urgently. She is clutching her stomach, but the next time she looks up at him, he is surprised, and not a little relieved, to see a smile break out on her face. "The baby!" she whispers excitedly. "That... that was a definite kick! I've only had a few so far..."

He lays his hand hesitantly on her stomach and raises his eyebrows. "He is going to be one to beat on the rugby pitch, Ruth," he informs her in awe. She wrinkles her nose, and his heart melts at how endearing it makes her look. "What? You don't think so?" he queries gently. Her mouth twists wryly, and she warns him, "You'll think I'm silly..." He smiles encouragingly at her and she continues, "I'm sure it's a girl, Harry. She feels like a girl." Harry grins and shrugs his shoulders. "Alright," he amends. "Girls can play rugby too." Ruth laughs and rests her head on his shoulder.

Peace descends. "Do you mind?" she wants to know. "If it's a boy or a girl?" Harry smiles into her hair. "Oh, Ruth... boy, girl, human, rabbit, fox, giraffe – I don't care. Happy and healthy and _ours_, that's all that matters." Ruth beams, and wonders to herself why Mr Darcy had never said such romantic things to Elizabeth Bennet. But, she reminds herself, Darcy was not Harry. And that makes all the difference.

* * *

The Home Secretary is a perceptive man, and he immediately notices the change in Harry and Ruth's dynamic when they enter his office. It is obvious that they have rectified the problems they have been having recently – Harry helps Ruth into a chair and she flashes him a soft smile as he sits down next to her. Then, turning his attention to Towers, Harry asks sharply, "What is Oliver Mace doing here?" The HS shuffles some papers on his desk, and then sighs, "Mace? He's been sniffing round here, hoping to climb the echelons again..." The couple exchange alarmed looks, and Towers smiles benevolently at them. "Don't worry – I'll make sure he doesn't get very far." Harry, still mindful of their earlier encounter, reddens with anger at the thought of Mace ever attempting to return to politics.

"Oliver Mace," he growls softly, "is a worm of the first degree. A liar, a traitor, a self-serving, arrogant, smarmy –" Ruth rests a firm hand on his arm, and he falls silence. She looks up at the Home Secretary and confesses quietly, "He was responsible for my exile, Home Secretary. There's no love lost." Towers nods thoughtfully.

"As I suspected, my dear. I'm sorry if seeing him caused you any distress. But I assure you, there are others I value more highly than men of Mace's disposition." She smiles, and Harry's shoulders relax as he apparently calms down. "Now," the Home Secretary begin again, "I wanted to talk to you about security arrangements for the French President's visit..."

Harry remains silent on the journey back to the Grid, and Ruth, sensing his anxiety returning, picks up his hand and holds it against her baby bump. He flashes her a tense smile, and disappears as soon as they arrive back at Thames House, dragging Tariq with him. Filing and the weekly threat notifications keep her occupied for the rest of the morning, and by the time she's finished, Harry has reappeared, bearing a tuna sandwich (her new favourite) and a mug of green tea. All thoughts of Mace vanish.

* * *

**21****st**** June 2011**

When Ruth turns on the radio the next morning, humming a tune from the CD Beth lent her yesterday, she doesn't expect to have Mace brought so forcibly back into her thoughts. Harry, upstairs, catches her muffled exclamation of shock and smiles wolfishly to himself. Her footsteps pound on the stairs, as fast as they can in her heavily pregnant state, and she appears in the door of their bedroom. "Mace," she gasps, red-faced with exertion. "He's been_ arrested_!"

Harry continues tying his tie, and murmurs softly, "Really? How unfortunate..." Something clicks into place in Ruth's head and her mouth drops open. "You already knew!" she accuses him, hands on hips. He turns to her, openly grinning, and nods sheepishly. She stares at him for a moment, and then her gravity crumbles. Soon, they are sitting side by side on the bed, laughing like lunatics. Had anyone else been in Mace's position, they would have felt some remorse for their mirth. But... it _is _Mace, and even kind-hearted Ruth can feel nothing but delight at his misfortune.

At last, wiping tears from her eyes, Ruth asks, "But how? The news didn't say what he'd been arrested for..." Harry tuts sanctimoniously. "It appears that dear Oliver has been taking some things that he shouldn't, and... encouraging others to do the same. I got Tariq onto finding out Mace's schedule – apparently his secretary's a very obliging girl – and then we had a quick scan through the CCTV footage for Mace's favourite restaurant, his offices, the Travellers'. And we found some _very_ incriminating images. Meetings with mafia bosses, large quantities of drug taking, money exchanging hands dubiously. A discreet phone call to the Met yesterday afternoon, and here we are." Ruth covers her mouth with her hands. "But you didn't know you were going to find any of this, did you? Why were you looking in the first place?"

Harry shrugs and admits, "I wanted to see if I could dig up anything that would cause Mace some discomfort. Payment in kind, you might call it. I was willing to let bygones be bygones once you got back, but yesterday... I just couldn't bear the thought that that slimy little cockroach would ever have the chance to hurt you ever again." She smiles softly, and rests a palm against his cheek. "Harry, how are you ever going to keep a straight face when you turn Alec down the next time he wants to use the mainframe to find out the name of the pretty blonde he was sitting next to on the Tube?"

Harry snorts with laughter. "I'm sorry. Do you disapprove?" Ruth rolls her eyes ironically, and shakes her head. "No," she decides firmly. "He _was_ doing something wrong, after all. You weren't strictly breaking any rules. Bending them in a few places, maybe..." He kisses her, suddenly and swiftly, startling a moan from her. "I love you," he murmurs fiercely. "And I promise you that I will never let _anyone_ hurt you, ever again."

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**AN: Inspired by sheldonsgirl18's reintroduction of Mace in "Calendar Boys" (if you haven't already been following it, please give it a go, because it's wonderfully written and absolutely hilarious), I decided to do the same, albeit briefly... **


	18. A Visit

**AN: Thanks for all your lovely reviews for the last chapter, and sorry that this one has taken a while to post...**

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**2****nd ****July 2011**

Ruth squeezes Harry's hand as she rings the doorbell. For a man who has spent more than half his life in MI-5, he can be surprisingly anxious about family visits. Especially visits to her family. Light footsteps tap inside the small house, and a short, sprightly woman in her eighties with Ruth's eyes and dimpling smile answers the door. Ruth steps forwards immediately, beaming. "Hi, Gran..."

Helen Evershed grins in return and greets her granddaughter with, "Hello, Ruth dear. You're getting so big!" Ruth laughs and they hug. When they part, Helen notes Ruth's tired eyes with a critical gaze, and says somewhat sternly, "I hope my great-grandchild isn't giving you too much trouble." She ushers them into the hall as she speaks. Ruth flaps a hand impatiently, and jokes, "Oh, she's just got to the stage where kicking me black and blue is her favourite way of passing the time."

Sharp as a needle, Helen asks, "She? I thought you didn't know the sex." Ruth shrugs wryly, and casts an amused glance over her shoulder at Harry. "We don't..." she admits. "I'm just convinced it's a girl. Harry doesn't believe me at all." Helen turns her bright gaze onto Harry and scolds him gently, "Faith in your wife, Harry – first rule of marriage." He smiles in reply and kisses her cheek. "I'll try to remember. Hello, Helen." Ruth breathes a soft sigh of relief at the sight of her two dearest relations getting along reasonably well, and tells them, "Just popping to the loo... her other favourite game..."

She heads up the stairs slowly, watched at every step by a concerned Harry. Helen moves into the sitting room, and motions Harry to sit down. It's light and airy, painted pale blue and lined with teeming bookshelves. A wooden floor adds extra elegance, as does the tasteful vase of lilies of the valley on the windowsill. Obviously Ruth's grandmother is still capable of looking after herself, in the very same Shropshire house where Ruth's father had been born. Picking up her knitting, Helen begins to set stitches in it, her blue eyes still very much focused on Harry. He feels suddenly very disconcerted. "I'm glad we've got some time to talk alone, Harry," she confides brightly. Harry's stomach sinks, and he wonders for how long Ruth is going to be away. "Oh?" he asks. "Did you have something particular to say to me?"

The knitting needles continue clicking as Helen replies, "Yes..." There is an awkward pause, and then she sighs impatiently. It is such a Ruth-like gesture that Harry has to smile. "Don't take this the wrong way," Helen continues, "but when you married Ruth, I wasn't at all sure it was for the best. Such an age difference..." He nods in understanding, but points out carefully, "Ruth told me her father was quite a bit older than her mother, too." A brief smile flits over Helen's face and she picks up a wooden photo frame from the coffee table, handing it to Harry. He looks down on a young couple, Ruth's parents, the woman with Ruth's height and build and the man with her dark hair and intelligent eyes of sparkling blue.

"She was fifteen years younger than James, yes. And that's exactly why I wasn't sure about you two. She had twelve years with my son, and then we lost him. It broke my heart and Ruth's too." Harry frowns softly. Ruth's father had died suddenly from a heart attack just a few days after her eleventh birthday. She barely mentions him now – just an occasional wistful smile accompanied by a childish explanatory murmur of, "Daddy", a request that they visited his grave the day after their wedding – but he knows she still misses him dreadfully. At last, he reassures her, "I'm not planning on dying any time soon, Helen."

Ruth's grandmother purses her lips in disapproval. "Nobody plans on it, Harry," she reminds him sharply. "James certainly didn't." The knitting needles begin to click again, and Harry is, for once, at a loss as to what to say. Helen looks deep into his eyes, waiting for an answer. "I don't understand... what you're asking of me," he explains, a little hesitantly. Helen shakes her head, suddenly birdlike, and folds her knitting away, tucking it inside the voluminous workbag at her feet. "Neither do I, really," she admits, her frank honesty refreshing. Then, words come tumbling out, remarkably Ruth-like in their rambling, almost uncontrollable way. "Just... promise me you'll look after her. Look after them both, for as little or as long as you have with them. Ruth's fragile, for all she puts a brave face on it. And she loves you with her whole heart."

Harry's face softens. "As I love her," he replies quietly. "I swear to you, Helen, I would die for her." Helen rolls her eyes, and Harry suddenly gets the unwelcome feeling that he has given completely the wrong answer. A feeling he hasn't had since his schooldays, particularly during third form Greek... "That's what I was afraid you'd say," Helen reveals, confirming his fear. "_Dying_ for someone is all very well, Harry, but can you _live_ for her?" The question surprises him, and he simply stares at Helen in mute astonishment until he hears the welcome sound of Ruth's unusual heavy footsteps on the stares.

Her face is incongruously cheerful as she enters the room. "What have you two been plotting?" she asks brightly. Helen and Harry answer in unison. "Nothing." Ruth shoots a sharp, penetrating gaze at Harry, but he avoids her eyes. She sits down, and the subject is changed swiftly, onto less dangerous topics.

The rest of their visit, fortunately, passes without incident. They stay for lunch, eaten in Ruth's grandmother's delightful back garden, as the scent of lilies of the valley floats over them, accompanied by the sound of birdsong. They talk about baby news – decorating the nursery, Ruth's maternity leave, buying a pram and a cot and all the other paraphernalia associated with a new family – and jokingly toss around ideas for baby names. It is calming and Harry doesn't mind his lingering sense of discomfort when he sees how happy her grandmother's presence makes Ruth. She isn't particularly close to her mother, and Harry realises that a female relative is perhaps the best person to set any anxieties his wife may have to rest.

As the sun sets, the Pearces rise to leave. Ruth hugs her grandmother, negotiating her baby bump as she does so, and then heads upstairs to the bathroom yet again. Harry hugs Helen while his wife is absent, and murmurs in her ear. "She _is_ my life." Helen doesn't ask for clarification. She just nods and smiles softly in approval.

* * *

The drive home starts off well enough, once Ruth has changed the CD from Frank Sinatra, belonging to Harry, to one of her own choice ("Do you want your daughter to be born middle aged?"). For a while, Harry concentrates on driving, and Ruth half-closes her eyes lazily. Just as he thinks she's fallen asleep, Ruth's voice murmurs, "My grandmother was quizzing you, wasn't she?"

"No," he says, too quickly. Ruth gives the side of his head a hard stare. Her disbelief is almost audible. "You might be a spook, Harry," she informs him, "but to me, you're a terrible liar." He smiles charmingly, inwardly hoping that she will drop the subject. But, with Ruth, that is always a futile hope. "You should take comfort in that fact, my darling," he replies lightly. "What do you feel like for dinner?"

Ruth huffs in impatience. "Stop trying to change the subject," she complains. He sighs, giving up the fight. "Alright," he concedes. "She wanted to make sure that her granddaughter hadn't married someone unsuitable." Ruth's hands curl in her lap and she swallows, caught between irritation and embarrassment. "Unsuitable?" she repeats, trying to make her voice light and unconcerned. "Dear Lord, I'd forgotten how Victorian she could be..."

Harry smiles gently. "Indeed." Then, with a slight cough, he adds, "She mentioned your father." He is close enough to hear Ruth's breath catch in her throat and he tilts his head, watching as his wife gnaws nervously on her lip. "Things must be serious if she dragged Daddy into it," she frowns at last, and Harry's eyes soften in pity. The use of the childish epithet always reminds him of her loss, so young, before she'd even considered the idea of calling her father anything else but... Daddy. "She doesn't like to mention him," Ruth elaborates. Harry reaches out a hand and turns the CD player down. On the way back to the wheel, his hand briefly settles on her leg, squeezing it in sympathy.

"She's drawing certain parallels between your parents' marriage, and ours," he explains awkwardly. She nods, eyes focused on her lap. Harry can't even begin to imagine what she is thinking or feeling. "The age difference," she guesses, voice clouded with sadness. He nods his head, and then remembers that she isn't looking at him. "Yes." The traffic slows in front of them, and Harry chances a glance at her face. Silent tears are coursing down her cheeks, and spilling over the fingertips with which she is trying to wipe them away. "Oh, Harry..." she whispers haltingly. "I'm so sorry. She can be so – "

The traffic has come to a complete standstill now, so he hands her his handkerchief and brushes a curl of damp, dark hair away from her wet eyes. "I think I'm the one who should be apologising," he corrects seriously. She looks up at him quizzically, allowing curiosity to replace anxiety. "You? Why?" He shrugs his shoulders and looks away, uncertain of how to explain to her. Ruth's palm slides over his cheek, turning his face gently yet insistently back to face her. "I get the feeling that she doesn't entirely approve of me," he admits, shame-faced. Then, with the sharp-eyed gaze of a man who has made a career out of reading people, he inquires, "Am I making things difficult for you?"

The anxiety is back in full-force. "No!" Ruth squeaks indignantly. After her initial outburst, Ruth hesitates, stopping and starting, opening and closing her mouth, wanting to be entirely honest with Harry. "If Gran's worried about me, then she has no need to be," she tells him at last, firmly and carefully. "I'm _happy_, Harry. Happy with you, and our child, and our life." Harry smiles faintly at his wife's sudden ferocity, but he continues, "She mentioned your father's death..."

Ruth's mouth twists sourly. "Let me guess. She thinks you're going to die on me." The way she says it, sounding so controlled, makes Harry shiver slightly, even though Ruth's own nails are digging deep crescents into her palms. He isn't afraid of death. He's afraid of what his death might do to Ruth and his children. Especially Ruth. "It's a possibility," he maintains. Her chin juts out stubbornly, refusing to acknowledge the truth of his words. "Harry – " she begins, exasperated, but he holds up a hand in a silent request for her patience.

"Let me finish. It's a definite possibility that I'll die before you, Ruth. Your grandmother is... worried about how you'd cope." Ruth exhales in frustration. After all these years, does he really think that she wants to spend time worrying about a far distance future?

"Harry," she reminds him forcefully, "people die every day in our line of work. That doesn't stop them from living and loving and making the most of the time they have." He beams, thinking how beautiful she looks when animated and angry. "Look at Adam and Fiona," she continues, "or Beth and Dimitri... or Alec and the girl off the Tube." He chuckles softly and she meets his gaze with a sparkle of mischief. But her voice is sincere and emphatic when she next speaks. "Whether you die tomorrow, or the day after, or in ten, twenty, thirty, even forty years time, know that I love you, more than anyone else I've ever loved before or ever will again. And I am sure that whatever our life is going to be like, it's the one I want." She isn't used to making such long speeches, and he isn't used to hearing them, so for a moment they remain silent, the only sound being their breathing – Harry's quiet and deliberate, Ruth's fast and shallow with emotion.

But just as the traffic moves off, Harry has enough presence of mind to lean quickly over and kiss her cheek. "Thank you."

* * *

**AN: And next time, Catherine makes an appearance...**


	19. Luck

**AN: Thanks for all the reviews. And now, as promised, enter Catherine...**

* * *

**10****th**** July 2011 **

As they rise from the dinner table, having consumed a huge Sunday roast, courtesy of Harry, with the chef suggesting a quick trip to his local, Catherine interjects quietly, "I think I'm going to stay and help Ruth with the washing up." Harry glances at his wife, frowning slightly, but she merely smiles at him. Sundays, in her opinion, are for relaxation, especially now, when she can barely walk up a flight of stairs without gasping for breath. "If you don't mind, Catherine..."

Her stepdaughter beams brightly, but there is something fragile in her face that worries Harry. "Not at all," she reassures them. Shrugging, Harry jokes, "I think that's my cue to get out." He presses his mouth to Ruth's cheek softly. No words are spoken, but Ruth recognises the love behind the kiss, just as she recognises the devotion behind the hand he lays briefly on her own, just before he leaves.

Catherine is a wonderful guest, Ruth has discovered, and all too eager to help around the house. She had felt, originally, a little anxious about inviting her, wondering whether Catherine would be as friendly as she had been at the wedding, now that she had had time to think about the implications of Ruth as a stepmother. She needn't have worried. Catherine had greeted her with a hug and a kiss, and they have quickly settled into a comfortable friendship. She knows Harry is glad to see his daughter, and that Catherine is happy to have some company, with Fabian away in Berlin at an international conference.

Elbow-deep in soapy hot water, Ruth finally asks, "So, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Catherine stiffen momentarily, and her stepdaughter's reply is forcibly light. "What do you mean?" Handing over one of the clean, wet plates, Ruth raises an eyebrow in mock sternness. "Come on, Catherine, you picked washing-up with your stepmother over a trip to the pub. I'm flattered, but something's going on."

Catherine sighs, and Ruth can easily imagine what she would have been like as a teenager, argumentative, moody, irrational... "You sound just like Dad," Catherine informs her wryly. "But you're right. Fabian and I... we're having a baby." Ruth's face breaks into a smile of happiness and she wraps an arm around Catherine's shoulders. "That's wonderful news! Congratulations!" Catherine frowns doubtfully, and her voice is dull as she asks, "Is it?"

Ruth sets down the last plate on the draining board and pulls the tea towel out of Catherine's hands. Guiding her stepdaughter over to the kitchen table, she sits them both down. "Don't you want to have children?" she asks quietly. Suddenly, her forced brightness of earlier makes sense.

Catherine shrugs desperately. "I don't know," she whispers. "I love Fabian, very much. And sometimes I want children, I really do. But then, I think about Mum and Dad, and the possibility that it could all go wrong..." As she speaks, she covers her face with her hands and her shoulders start to shake as she cries. Ruth rests a hand on Catherine's shoulder and rubs it in soothing circles. "Oh, Catherine... have you talked to Fabian about this?" Catherine's voice replies, muffled and thick. "Yes. He thinks that we'll be so different. He doesn't think I should have to think about it. We've been married for three years now, after all..." Lifting her head up, she wipes her eyes on the cuff of her jumper and inquires, "What did you feel like when you found out you were pregnant?"

Ruth passes Catherine a tissue and thinks. Then, utterly honestly, she informs her, "Scared. Excited. But mostly scared." Catherine nods in understanding. Then, twisting the tissue between her fingers, she ventures, "And Dad?" Ruth smiles cryptically, recalling Harry's arms around her and his joyful voice in her ear. "He took it very well. He's rather a natural." Catherine's face darkens slightly, and she mutters, "When he's here..." Ruth grimaces at her own stupidity. It isn't a sensible idea to extoll Harry's virtues as a husband or father to either of the children he let down so badly all those years ago. She reaches out and takes her stepdaughter's hand. "Oh, Catherine, I'm sorry. That was insensitive."

But Catherine, to her surprise, shakes her head and takes a deep breath. "No," she corrects her. "You're right. As an adult, I can see that. He was an absent father, not a bad one." They sit in silence for a moment, and then Catherine ventures, "What made you pick him, Ruth?" It is a question Ruth has never had to answer before, and, playing for time, she jests, "The knowledge that he wasn't going to give up. It was easier to just give in..." Catherine laughs and Ruth joins her. For a moment, Ruth thinks that this marks the end of the topic, but then Catherine presses, "But seriously... why my father, Ruth?"

Ruth's face sobers and she answers with complete honesty. "Seriously? I realised that I loved him even when he was being moody or arrogant or making decisions that I didn't agree with. I realised that marrying him was what I'd wanted for so long, but had just forgotten." Catherine absorbs this information, and then a small frown creases her forehead. "But then you left him..." Catherine protests. "I couldn't do that to a child." Ruth rests a hand on her bump, where she can feel her child stirring slightly, and taps out a rhythm on the taut skin with her fingers. "Yes," she acknowledges. She exhales a sigh. Catherine obviously needs advice, and there is no one else there to offer it. "You know, marriages are never easy, Catherine, not even the happy ones. Your father and I argue sometimes. And sometimes one of us will perhaps feel like giving up. But sooner or later, I know we will end up back here, together in this house, because this is where we belong. Arguments don't destroy marriages – doing nothing about them does." Her voice is firm, yet calm, and Catherine's frown smoothens out as Ruth speaks.

Then, Ruth grins and informs her, "The fact that you're even worried about this... it shows you really care. You're going to be a great mother." Catherine's face splits into a beam of pride, and Ruth observes, not for the first time, how much she looks like Harry. A thought strikes her, and she asks suddenly, "Have you told Jane?" Catherine bites her lip sheepishly, and then shakes her head quickly. "No," Catherine reveals. "Actually, we haven't told anyone yet." Ruth sits back in her chair, stunned and not a little flattered. She doesn't understand that Catherine appreciates and trusts her advice, or appears to have the sort of demeanour that makes it easy to reveal anything. "You should tell her," Ruth adds at last. "And your father. He'll be very pleased."

Catherine chuckles, the idea of her father as a grandfather infinitely appealing. "Grandpa Harry. I can see it now..." Ruth gets up and switches on the kettle.

"Feeling better?" she checks, adding teabags to the mugs on the kitchen sideboard.

"Yes," Catherine reassures her, getting up to help her. "Thanks, Ruth."

* * *

"And then, he realised he couldn't get the cot through the nursery door, so he had to dismantle it again!"

Harry groans as he shuts the door quietly behind him, the sound of the combined laughter of his wife and daughter echoing down the passage. From what he's heard, he can guess the story Ruth has just told Catherine. Their co-workers on the Grid had also found it highly amusing last week, and from the stifled giggles his appearance has been inducing in the corridors of Thames House, he has a suspicion that Ruth has revealed his DIY mishap to some of her friends in other sections too. "I'm back!" he calls, announcing his presence, and Catherine appears in the kitchen doorway, wiping tears of mirth away from her eyes.

Ruth remains quietly in the kitchen while Catherine gives Harry the good news. When she hears Harry's full-throated laugh of delight, she emerges to lean against the door jamb and watch as Harry pulls his daughter into a gentle, but no less loving for that, hug. And when he turns to her, eyes shining with newfound delight, Ruth can't help but laugh too and be pulled into his arms.

Later, as they wave Catherine off, Harry wraps his arms around Ruth from behind, resting his hands against her bump and tapping lightly, teasing their unborn child. "You knew, didn't you?" he murmurs, his voice a deep hum as he kisses the top of her head. She sighs happily and relaxes into his chest. "About what?" she asks lazily. Harry grasps her hands and twirls her around to face him. "About Catherine being pregnant," he elaborates patiently. Ruth's lips quirk up on one side in an enigmatic smile.

"She told me while you were out," she admits. Then, frowning a little nervously, she adds, "She was a little bit worried about it. Are you angry with her?" Harry's eyes widen in surprise and he pulls Ruth into a hug. She rests her head on his shoulder, and Harry replies, "Not at all. I'm glad you two get on so well. At least she's past the age where she thinks all stepmothers have to be wicked ones."

Ruth's laugh is a breathy sigh in his ear. "True. How do you feel about becoming a grandfather then?" Harry's arms tighten reflexively around her and his smile broadens. "It's wonderful news," he grins. "A few years ago, I didn't think Catherine and I would ever speak to each other again." He allows himself a moment to compare his current good fortune to his former frosty relationship with his daughter. Then, pulling away, he looks down at Ruth and says, eyes twinkling with mischief, "But I think a more pertinent question would be: how do _you_ feel about becoming a grandmother at the tender age of forty-one?"

Ruth stifles a smile and reminds him in mock-sternness, "Step-grandmother. And I'll be forty-two by the time she has the baby." Harry snorts impatiently and taps Ruth's nose with his forefinger, making her wrinkle her face up, showing off her dimples. "Stop quibbling," he orders. "What do you think?"

Ruth looks up at him, blue eyes serious. "I think I'm very lucky to be a part of your family, Harry," she replies.

He catches her hand in his and kisses it gently. "_Our_ family, Ruth," he reminds her.


	20. End Of An Era

**AN: Kind of a short update, I know, but I hope you enjoy it anyway...**

* * *

**5****th**** August 2011**

Beth's wail of sadness is clearly audible across the Grid. "I can't believe you're leaving, Ruth! I can't believe we're not going to see each other every day!" Ruth's last official day on the Grid has arrived, and the usually tough Beth is taking it rather hard. Ruth sighs and pats her friend on the back with one hand as she tries to detach Beth's arms from around her neck with the other. "Beth – I don't anticipate never seeing you again," she half-shouts, exasperated. "It'll just be like us not living together. You managed that alright..."

Dimitri grins cheekily, and leans back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. "Yeah, with a little help from yours truly," he gloats. Beth rolls her eyes and releases Ruth, much to latter's relief, and starts hunting for something to throw. "Charming as ever, Mr Levendis..." Harry's cultured tones float out across the Grid as he exits his office. Dimitri sits up straight in his chair, blushing a fetching crimson. Reaching Ruth, he cups her face with his palm, and asks, concerned, "Are you feeling alright, darling?"

Ruth stands up on tiptoes and kisses Harry chastely on the lips. "Mmm," she sighs blissfully.

Dimitri frowns slightly at the sight of their analyst entangled with their boss, and asks Beth musingly, "What has he got that I haven't?" Beth grins wryly at the mention of her boyfriend's old crush on Ruth, and points out, "Me." Dimitri turns his head towards Beth and nods, his eyes loving. "Good point..." he murmurs, and kisses her, allowing his arms to slip around her back and draw her closer.

And so it is that Malcolm, Tariq and Alec arrive back on the Grid to the sight of two couples kissing. Malcolm politely averts his eyes, studying the floor near his feet intently. Tariq's eyes widen at the sight of strait-laced Ruth pressed up against her desk, enjoying Harry's attentive ministrations, while Alec announces in mock-severity, "If we've split up into couples, I want to switch!" Aware now that they are being watched, the respective couples break apart. Breathing a little heavier than usual, Harry claps his hands together. "Right, you lot, let's finish up here, and get down to the George."

This announcement is met by general cheers, and a flurry of activity breaks out on the Grid as the team gather together coats and bags, and file last minute reports. Softly, Ruth runs a hand across the top of her computer and glances sadly over her neat and, for once, empty station. She swallows to get rid of the lump in her throat. Harry's eyes soften and he wraps an arm around her waist. Ruth flashes him a grateful smile and enters the pods for the last time.

Harry has managed to commandeer the George's small private parlour, and it is here that Section D relaxes in comfortable chairs, laughing and joking. Ruth is rather quiet and Harry stays close by, a hand buried in her loose hair. At last, Beth stands up and silence falls. Ruth shoots an inquiring glance at Harry and he shakes his head, eyes wide with innocence. Only the slight amused twitch of his lips gives him away. Ruth smirks, and turns her attention towards Beth.

Beth clears her throat, and begins her speech, well-rehearsed in the forgery suite at lunch for a week. "I'd just like to say that we're all really going to miss you, Ruth. You've looked after most of us on our first day, made us coffees, cleaned us up when we've hurt ourselves, been a shoulder to cry on... and given us all a good laugh that time you threatened to bitch-slap your computer." Everyone laughs, and Ruth ducks her head, grinning sheepishly. Beth continues, more serious now. "But more than that, you've been the best bloody intelligence analyst any department could have wished for. The best of colleagues and the best of friends..." Her voice quivers as she forces out these last words, and she has to sit down. Dimitri takes over. "What Beth is trying to say, Ruth, is..." He pauses for a moment, trying to find a word to express the gratitude of the team. At last, he settles for something simple. "Thanks. For everything. Here's to you, Ruth!" Everyone raises his or her glasses and Ruth blushes with pleasure. Tariq dives underneath his seat and pulls out a package, unusually wrapped in a gauzy dark blue length of material, tied neatly. He hands it to Ruth, with a sheepish smile and explains, "This is from us, to you. A little gift to show how much we appreciate you and everything you've done for us..."

Ruth fumbles with the knot on the scarf and then unwinds the material carefully, determined to save it. A large object tumbles into her lap. Picking it up, she discovers that it is a leather-bound edition of the _Iliad_, which she had discounted as too expensive to buy when she had seen it whilst shopping with Harry a few days previously. She looks up at him in disbelief and he flashes her a smug smile. "Open it," Malcolm suggests. She obeys, and finds that the flyleaf has been covered in messages from the team:

_Evershed,_

_Look after yourself,_

_Dimitri_

_Ruth,_

_Miss you loads,_

_Beth xx_

_To Ruth,_

_Thanks for all your help,_

_Tariq_

_Dear Ruth,_

_Very b__est__ wishes for the future_

_Malcolm_

_Ruth,_

_All the best,_

_Alec_

_My darling Mule,_

_With all my love,_

_H x_

Ruth reads the messages – simple words of friendship and love – with her lips slightly parted. When she looks up, the rest of the team can see that her blue eyes are swimming with tears. Never has she felt as much a part of a team as she does now, just when she's leaving. "Oh... you lot..." she sobs half-heartedly, and buries her face in Harry's kindly offered handkerchief.

* * *

As the party breaks up, with the team splitting off to find taxis, Ruth pulls Beth aside. "Can you do me a favour?" she asks, eyes shining with the delight of a newly-formed plan.

* * *

**AN: So what is Ruth up to?**


	21. Not Here

**A/N: Thanks for everyone's continuing support with this story - I'm truly grateful for each and every review! Enjoy...**

* * *

**8****th**** August 2011**

Ruth watches wistfully from bed as Harry straightens his tie, ready for work. He moves over and kisses her forehead gently. "I'll see you later, darling," he murmurs, his breath warm on her face. "OK," she replies in a very Eeyore-like voice. His heart sinks – Ruth is obviously experiencing Section D withdrawal symptoms – and he perches himself on the bed for a moment. Slowly, he brushes away a curl of her dark hair, eyes lively with love.

"I wish I wasn't going in without you..." he sighs softly. Ruth gives him a small smile, and then mumbles matter-of-factly into the pillow, "So do I. I don't trust you to stay out of trouble and come home at a decent hour." He gasps with indignation and tweaks the curl of hair he is still holding. "So says my loving wife!" he exclaims. Then, getting up, he tells her seriously, "Don't fret about me – just look after yourself and the little one."

She hears the bedroom door close, then Harry's footsteps down the stairs, and, soon after, the slam of the front door as he lets himself out. As she hears Harry's driver start up his car, her mobile buzzes from the bedside table. It is a text. _Miss you already. H x _

Ruth smiles, shaking her head at her husband's romantic whims, and then throws back the duvet to reveal not pyjamas but a rather fetching cream blouse and trousers.

Sitting up, she dials a number on the mobile, which is quickly answered. "Beth?" she grins wickedly, "He's just left. See you soon?" The line crackles as Beth sighs deeply and disapprovingly. "I can't believe I agreed to this!" she groans. "Harry will _kill me_ if he finds out!" Ruth shakes her head, exasperated. The one time she needs Beth to be a daredevil, and her friend is suddenly on the verge of backing out. "He won't," she reassures Beth, crossing her fingers. _Find out, that is. He'd definitely kill her..._ "He's at the JIC from nine till two. I'll be back home before he even thinks about leaving."

Ruth's appearance on the Grid causes more than a few raised eyebrows that morning. Tariq looks up from his workstation in surprise as Ruth hobbles out of the pods, a hand resting on her more than sizeable bump. "Hey, Ruth!" he greets her, getting up and relieving her of her handbag. "Hi, Tariq," she smiles gratefully.

Malcolm pokes his head out of the forgery suite, wearing a frown and a lime-green tie. "Shouldn't you be at home resting?" he asks, with the disapproving air of an infants' school teacher on playground duty at lunchtime. Ruth shrugs, avoiding his eye, and turns on her Mac. "Maybe," she acknowledges. Then, raising a finger to her lips, she informs Malcolm, "But shh – I'm not here." Alec wanders out of the kitchen and double takes when he sees Ruth sitting at her desk, sifting through files. He makes a remarkably good recovery, however, and merely says, "Oh, morning Ruth."

Tariq looks up from his monitor quickly, and scolds Alec matter-of-factly, "Shh, she's not here." Dimitri arrives at this point, sauntering through the pods. He gives a bemused sigh, and then admits, "I don't get it." Beth rolls her eyes and aims one of the paper balls, which she keeps on her desk for just such occasions as these, at Dimitri's head. "She's only here until Harry gets back," she enlightens him. Dimitri opens his mouth to ask if Ruth knows Harry at all, but the analyst raises a hand to fend off his protests. "Just to do some filing," she reassures him. "Nothing too strenuous."

Section D settle down to work, with Alec fielding any calls for Harry, Ruth flicking through files, Tariq and Malcolm squabbling quietly over some new piece of technology, and Beth and Dimitri playing with a disarmed explosive device the team had retrieved from a group of Kurdish nationalists earlier that month. Life is calm. At 9.45 am, Tariq happens to look up from his workstation. His jaw drops. Beth, facing away from the pods, frowns in curiosity. "Harry!" Tariq chokes out.

Ruth's head jerks up. "What?" Tariq points emphatically towards the pods, where Harry is standing, back to them, appearing to be ranting on his phone to some unfortunate. Just as the pods swoosh open, Beth steps in front of Ruth, shielding her from view. Harry steps onto the Grid. "Morning, all," he greets them, in a rather cheerful tone. Tariq is gulping in terror, and Malcolm is studiously tapping away at his keyboard, trying to avoid the storm he can tell is imminent. "Hi, Harry," replies Beth in her usual optimistic tones, appearing to be the only team member able to keep her composure. "Aren't you meant to be at that JIC meeting?"

Harry nods. "It's been cancelled," he explains. "The Home Secretary's got flu. The political type, if you catch my drift, so..." His voice trails off and he frowns at the object currently residing on Beth's desk. Ruth bites her lip, knowing what is coming. "Isn't that one of Ruth's handbags?" he inquires, confused. Beth's eyes widen momentarily, and she squeaks desperately, "N-no! No. It's... it's mine!"

Harry clearly isn't convinced. "Yours?"

Beth's sharp elbow meets Dimitri's midriff and he winces. "Ouch! Yes, it's Beth's! I bought it for her last week. Birthday gift." Harry's face clears, and he turns away in the direction of his office. But Beth barely has time to breathe a sigh of relief, before Harry halts and faces them again. "Isn't your birthday in February, Beth?" he inquires. Beth flushes red and glares at Dimitri, who is frantically trying to blend into the scenery. "Er..."

Harry places his hands on his hips, pushing back his open jacket. "Just what is going on here?" he demands. With a sigh of defeat, Beth stands aside to reveal Ruth. Harry's face instantly darkens. "What the _hell_ are you doing here?" he asks, his voice low with supressed anger. "I gave her a lift in," Beth admits, hanging her head slightly. Harry's mouth tightens and he growls, "Right. Miss Bailey, my office. Now."

Beth casts a pleading glance in Ruth's direction, and her friend attempts to intervene. "Harry, it isn't Beth's fault, I asked her to – " Harry's look of utter rage halts her in her tracks. Pointing a shaking finger at her, Harry snaps, "Don't get too comfortable. You're next." With that, he turns and marches off into his office, Beth following like a child who has misbehaved. A moment later, the door slams and the team hear Harry's rant begin.

When Beth emerges from Harry's office three quarters of an hour later, Ruth stands up defiantly and waltzes past Harry into his office. She sits down in the chair opposite him and waits for him to do the same. But he doesn't. Standing behind her and resting his hands on the back of her chair, he demands in a low, ire-filled voice, "Explain." She doesn't turn to face him, but stares resolutely at the glass vases on the shelves behind Harry's desk. Remarkably, none have suffered damage at the hands of Harry's temper. "I just came in to do some filing," she replies calmly. "I'm a desk officer, it's what I do, Harry!"

She feels his fingers clench around the chair he's holding, and then he releases it, to lean against the desk beside her. "Not when you're eight months pregnant, it bloody isn't!" he snaps. He brushes a hand across his throbbing temples, and murmurs, "I can't believe you're being so irresponsible!" She folds her arms across her bump, her mouth set in the mulish line he privately dreads. "Don't treat me like a child!" she retorts, showing her first signs of anger.

Harry moves away abruptly, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Then don't act like one!" is his harsh rejoinder. "By God, Ruth – if this happens again, I'll chain you to the bed myself before I leave for work." He sounds deadly serious and her head jerks up, ready to fight. "You wouldn't dare!" she states indignantly, eyes flashing with the fire he first fell in love with. "Try me," he dares her, dangerously. "I'm serious." Ruth merely frowns sulkily, refusing to dignify his words with a reply. Harry tries to calm himself with a ritual checking of his bottles of malt whisky. At last, he asks severely, "Now, is that clear?"

She does not answer. He scowls briefly – he's never known Ruth to be petulant or childish, and he hates the idea that she is going to start now. "Ruth?" he repeats. "Is that clear?" This time she does answer. "Crystal," she says, her voice clipped and icy. Harry selects a bottle of the whisky and pours himself a glass, hands steadier than heart. "You're being officially decommissioned in a week – this isn't your job any more," he reminds her, taking a sizeable swig from the tumbler. He hears the rustle of cloth behind him, and turns to find his wife slumped in her chair, as her shoulders sag in defeat. Suddenly, she isn't sure why she's here at all. He's right, and what's worse, she knows it all too well.

"I know," she murmurs quietly. "I know." He sighs in sympathy and returns to her side. A hand cupping her cheek, he catches a sudden teardrop on his thumb, and bends to kiss her forehead softly. She wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face in his neck. He pulls her gently to her feet and holds her against his chest, all anger melted away in fear of what could have happened to her. "It's OK for you to miss it, Ruth," he reassures her soothingly. "But you aren't an officer any more." He feels her dear head nod against his chest and she sniffs sensibly. He kisses her cheek one last time and guides her onto his sofa. "Stay here," he tells her.

Ruth, rummaging in her pocket for a tissue, asks nervously, "What are you going to do?" He rubs a hand across his eyes. "Tell Alec that he's in charge while I drive you home." She looks up at him, shaking her head insistently. Harry has more than enough to do without having to mop up after her as well. "There's no need – I'll call Mike – " He raises his eyebrow, silencing her protests. "_I'll_ drive you home, thank you very much," he replies firmly.

* * *

This episode notwithstanding, the Grid slowly recovers from the loss of Ruth. Harry leaves work at a decent hour as often as he can, bringing with him the latest gossip from the team, and, sometimes, Beth. And, just as slowly, Ruth recovers too. She remembers what it is like to have a decent night's sleep. She remembers lie-ins on Saturday mornings. She remembers what planning her life feels like. She reads Georgette Heyer novels for the first time since her teens, falling in love all over again with Damerel, Alverstoke, Worth and the rest, and takes walks into the village. She buys cookery books and delights Harry with her increasing skills in the kitchen. Together, they finish decorating the nursery, and learn to look forward to their very bright future.


	22. Planning

**AN: Thanks for your reviews, and also to anybody who is reading but not reviewing! And if anyone has any suggestions for what H and R should call their baby (boy or girl) they're more than welcome... it's anybody's guess what they're having at the moment!**

* * *

**13****th**** August 2011**

Ruth glances down the page of the book she's seemingly engrossed in. "Poppy," she suggests, taking a sip from her glass of iced lemon tea. Harry adds it to the relatively short list that lies between them on the pub's patio table and then picks up his own name book. After a hard few days at work, he has brought Ruth out for Saturday lunch, as they try to decide upon a name for their child. It's proving to be a harder task than either of them ever anticipated. After a moment, he states, "Rebecca" and at Ruth's nod of acquiescence, it too is added to the list. There is a moment of silence, and then, brightly, Ruth smiles, "Chrysanthe."

Harry splutters on the sip of beer he's just taken and echoes incredulously, "Chrysanthe? Seriously?" Ruth rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by his reaction, and drums her fingers on the table. "It's Greek," she informs him smugly. "It means golden flower." Harry purses his lips and buries himself in the steak and chips on the plate in front of him, tearing his eyes away from his wife, a vision in a white summer dress and floppy green hat, with her dark curls hanging over her shoulders and her eyes half-closed behind a pair of sunglasses. "So does Wild Parsnip," he points out darkly. Midway through her plate of seafood salad, she snorts with laughter. "Philistine." Harry shrugs his shoulders, thanking God that this time, he's having a say in the name of his child. At least he had been able to rely on Jane to pick out ordinary, sedate names for their children...

He sighs wearily, as he always does when he thinks of his ex-wife, and Ruth wisely suggests, "Let's move on to boys' names." Harry smiles at her and takes her hand from across the table, gently stroking his thumb along the back of her wrist. "Alright – as long as you don't suggest Aeneas or Hector," he grins sardonically. Ruth bites her lip to hide a smile, and retorts, "Now you're just being silly. No one would name their son Aeneas."

Harry rolls his eyes, amusedly exasperated. "But I'm sure plenty of people name their daughters Chrysanthe..." Ruth nudges his ankle with her sandaled foot, and he flashes her a wink, enjoying, as he always does, the opportunity to tease her.

Deciding not to make any more reference to her husband's comment, Ruth ignores this, and merely begins with, "Callum."

"William."

"Nicholas."

She hesitates, pushing a prawn around her plate for a moment, and then murmurs, "Ben."

Harry freezes, feeling a shiver run down his spine despite the heat of the August day. He still doesn't like to talk about his brother, killed in the Great Storm of 1987. Ruth waits in silence, wondering if she's said the right thing, while Harry remembers a young boy playing cricket, a teenager sneaking sips of his father's cider, and a young man making a best man's speech. At last, he looks straight up at Ruth and nods slowly. "Ben. I like that very much." He reaches over and kisses her hand, and Ruth lets out a comfortable sigh of relief. Then a frown passes over her face. "Lord knows what we'll do if I'm right, and it is a girl, though," she muses.

Harry shakes his head. "You can't plan everything, darling..." he reminds her softly. She pouts adorably, and replies quietly, "But it would be nice to, sometimes. I just keep thinking that this could all have happened so many years ago, if I'd been able to plan things better..." Harry can't help but laugh. When he's finished, he finds himself looking at an indignant Ruth. "Well, it's true!" she insists. "If I'd known I'd have to leave so soon, then I wouldn't have said no to a second date. And I'd have kissed you in the corridor that night at Havensworth, as well." Harry raises his eyebrows and a light blush that has absolutely nothing to do with the early afternoon sun mantles her cheeks.

"You wanted to kiss me at Havensworth?" he presses. Ruth looks away, and then replies, matter-of-factly, "Of course I did. You knew I did. That's why I ran." She pauses for a moment while Harry allows himself to reminisce. "You see," she adds triumphantly after a moment, "it all comes down to planning."

Harry leans back in his chair, and contradicts her quietly, "Ruth, that wouldn't have been planning. That would have been seeing into the bloody future. I don't think either of us expected any of this to happen. So stop thinking about what might have been and concentrate on what we have, in the here and now. Yes?" Taking a deep breath, Ruth nods and beams at him. "Hmm," she smiles cheekily, rising from the table and walking round to him, "about the here and now..."


	23. I'd Do Anything

**26****th**** August 2011**

Having drifted into a comfortably deep sleep, Harry is, needless to say, somewhat displeased when Ruth prods him in the ribs with a well-placed finger. "Harry! Harry, wake up!" she hisses. He groans and forces himself to open his eyes, meeting Ruth's eager and all too awake face with a rueful smile. "Hmm? What is it?"

She beams down at him from her propped up position against her pillows, with the air of having solved a fiendishly difficult Sudoku puzzle. "I've been thinking," she announces brightly. Harry groans again, and passes a hand over his face, reminding her grumpily, "You're always thinking, woman." Another poke in the ribs, harder this time is his reward. "About work," she elaborates, narrowing her eyes at his obtuseness. Harry raises his eyebrows, trying to remember an occasion when Ruth hasn't been thinking, in some form or another, about her work. At last, he decides to humour her. "Oh?"

"I've worked things out," she explains, reaching for the pad of paper and pen that she appears to have discarded a few minutes ago. Harry stifles a yawn behind his hand, and glances at the alarm clock. Five hours until he has to be in Whitehall, at a JIC meeting. "Do tell, darling, so I can go back to sleep." She half-laughs and pinches his arm lightly to get his attention. "I won't have to be in Oxford all week. Perhaps not even for more than a day," she begins, showing him a piece of paper which appears to be a list of tasks involved in translating something, and estimated times for each of them. He can't help but smile at his wife's resourcefulness. "We could base ourselves here, you could stay in the Service..."

Harry's smile fades and Ruth's voice copies it as she bites her lip. "Really?" he asks lightly, already aching at the thought that she will be away from him for as much as twenty-four hours. Ruth sighs and runs a hand through her hair in desperation. "You don't like that idea," she states in disappointment. "Oh, Harry, I'm trying – " He wraps a comforting arm around her, and lays his hand on her bump, concealed by the duvet. "I know, my darling," he soothes her. "But I don't want to be away from you and the little one for that long."

Ruth rests her own hand on top of his, all joy in her discovery gone. "I don't want that either," she confides. "But I want this job so much..." She lies down and rests her head on his chest, allowing her other hand to curl into a light fist on his collarbone as always. Harry kisses the top of her head, and swallows the lump in his throat. "We'll work something out. I promise you, Ruth, we'll work something out."

* * *

**31st August 2011 **

When he arrives home from work today, he can hear her playing the piano to the baby in the living room. Moonlight Sonata. He smiles softly and walks through, setting his coat down over the back of the sofa. He moves to stand behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders and kissing her cheek. She doesn't speak, but he sees her lips twitch into a smile. She finishes the piece and swivels around on her stool to face him. She reaches up for a kiss, and he obliges, doing the job thoroughly as always, despite having to lean over her sizeable bump to do so. Just seven days to go... When they break apart, she reproves him softly, "You're home early. I've not even started dinner..."

He grins, and helps her up. He feels taller than usual, given that her feet are bare, a look that suits her very well. Ruth has finally succumbed to the doctrine of comfort over style during the final weeks of her pregnancy, and is wearing a pale blue smock top and black leggings. She's tied her brown curls back in a messy bun at the back of her head, but a single lock hangs down over her cheek. Harry thinks that no woman could ever look so beautiful. Giving the lock of hair a playful tweak, he tells her, "Don't worry, I've got a takeaway. I need to tell you something."

He plates up the food – chicken chowmein, egg fried rice and duck spring rolls – while Ruth sets the table. Once they are both seated, Ruth eats ravenously, a not uncommon occurrence during her pregnancy. Around a mouthful of spring roll, she mumbles, "So what did you need to tell me?" Harry sighs, amused. Ruth is never one to be distracted for long.

"Impatient girl!" he chides gently. "I spoke to the Home Secretary today. I've been mulling all this over for a while, and I handed in my request for early retirement." She drops her fork with a clatter on her plate, intelligent blue eyes wide with disbelief. "Retirement?" she breathes. "Oh, Harry..." He raises a hand to forestall the inevitable protests. Done are his days of serving the country. Now he plans to be the husband and the father he should have been twenty years ago.

"You need to be in Oxford for a few days a week," he states reasonably. "The little one'll need full time care. I can't bear to be in a situation where I can't see you every day and wake up with you every day and kiss you every day... So I'm retiring. I'm giving them a month's notice, just to be sure, and then I'm done." Ruth shakes her head, staring at him solemnly. She reaches out a hand and he takes it, kissing her palm. "I can't believe you've done this... for me," she whispers, stunned. Harry has lived for his job for so many years that she had thought he would never leave voluntarily. At least, she hadn't thought she was the woman to make him leave voluntarily.

He chuckles, and replies dryly, "If I wasn't wary of insulting your admirable intelligence, sweetheart, I'd point out that I've demonstrated several times over the course of our acquaintance that I would do anything for you." She bites her lip as the truth of the statement reaches her. Attacking Mace, helping her fake her death, giving up Albany for her... "Anything?" she inquires, and it appears to Harry that her expression changes in some indefinable way as she speaks.

"Anything," he reassures her firmly. Ruth closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, pushing her plate into the middle of the table. When she opens them again, they contain a look of set determination. "In that case, could you get the car started?" she asks calmly. He frowns, thrown by her odd request. "The car? Why?"

The reply is simple. "My waters have just broken."

* * *

**AN: Dun-dun-DUN! More soon... I promise**


	24. Unwelcome Guests

**AN: Lady J made me feel so guilty with her emphatic disapproval of my little cliff-hanger that I've put up this chapter a few days before I originally intended... Hope it lives up to your expectations, Lady J!**

* * *

**31****st**** August 2011 **

Harry chokes on his mouthful of duck spring roll. Once he has finished coughing, he looks up in alarm at Ruth. "But you're not due for another week!" he protests. Ruth rolls her eyes and shifts uncomfortably in her chair. "Tell that to the baby, Harry!" she retorts, the quake in her voice betraying her fear. He rises from his chair and rests a hand on her hair. "Alright," he murmurs soothingly. "Alright. Just stay here and re – " The doorbell cuts him off. Harry shoots a panicked glance between Ruth and the kitchen door, and she waves him away with her hand. She can hear him cursing all the way down the hall.

When Harry throws the door open, he comes face to face with a large pink stuffed rabbit. "Hello?" he asks awkwardly. The rabbit's head moves aside slightly, and he can just see Beth's face behind it. He steps back and Beth marches straight in, self-confident as always. "Beth!" Harry exclaims in surprise. "What are you doing here?" Beth smiles up at him, and hands him the rabbit. "Thought I'd come and visit the mum-to-be," she beams cheerfully. Then, inspecting Harry's face closely, she observes, "You look a bit flustered, Harry."

He grits his teeth and sets the rabbit down on the hall table. "Yes, well, this isn't the best time, actually," he explains. "Ruth's just gone into labour." Beth's mouth drops open almost comically. "She's _what_?" she screeches. "Why are you still here, then?" Harry scowls and holds up his car keys. "I was just about to go and get the car started up," he informs her coolly, irritated at receiving something akin to a reprimand from one of his junior officers. Beth folds her arms, clearly disapproving. "Well, hurry up then!"

Harry heads out of the still open door and Beth hurries into the dining room. Ruth is still sitting in her chair, a bead of sweat already running down her forehead. "Hi, Ruth," Beth ventures, sitting down opposite her. Ruth smiles softly, and then gasps as another contraction hits her. "Beth..." she breathes in greeting. Beth stands and fetches her friend a glass of water, before asking, "How are you feeling?" Ruth stares hard at her ex-flatmate, trying to work out whether she's joking. But Beth's face remains utterly serious, and at last Ruth replies a little scathingly, "Funnily enough, I've been better."

Beth makes no comment on Ruth's lack of patience, but just hands her the glass of water, and reassures her, "Ruth, we're going to get you to the hospital, OK?" Ruth just closes her eyes, breathing rather heavily. "What a good idea..." Harry reappears, red-faced and dishevelled, and Ruth's eyes flicker open. "Where's the bag?" he inquires of his wife. Ruth looks up at him blankly. "Bag? What bag?" Harry rolls his eyes, and reminds her, sounding slightly anxious, "You know, a bag – your nightie, toothbrush, things like that. For the hospital." Ruth claps a hand to her suddenly open mouth. "Oh, God! I haven't packed one!" she exclaims. "I thought I'd have plenty of time, and then everything's been so hectic and – " Harry raises a hand for silence and starts to pace. Someone has to remain calm, after all. "Right," he tells them decisively. "I am going to pack a bag and Beth is going to find you a coat, Ruth, and then we're all going –"

_DING-dong...DING-dong_. Harry casts an amazed glance over his shoulder. "This has got to be a joke!" he scowls, before leaving the kitchen again. As he reaches the door, he mutters angrily, "Who the bloody hell is thi -?" His voice dies in his throat as he opens the door. Tall, with Harry's curly brown hair and Jane's vividly green eyes, Graham Pearce stands on his father's doorstep, nervously chewing on his lip. "Hi, Dad." Harry remains silent for a moment, unsure whether to laugh or cry. "Graham?" he murmurs in disbelief. Then, reality hits. He's sure his son would only come to him in a time of direst need. "Is something wrong?" he asks. Graham shakes his head in awkward reassurance, and then steps forwards slightly. "Can... can I come in?"

Harry automatically steps back, and then remembers Ruth. Wistfully, he informs his son, "It's not really the best time – " Graham's face changes suddenly and his mouth twists into a bitter smirk. "Sure. It never is, is it?" His voice is cold, and he whirls around on the spot, ready to leave. Desperately, Harry calls after him, "Ruth's just gone into labour!" Graham halts abruptly and turns back. "_What_?" Harry just waits, and then Graham walks back towards him. Hesitantly, he crosses his father's threshold. Harry leads him through to the dining room. Ruth, swallowing the remnants of her water, appraises Graham with a knowing eye, recognising him from the relatively recent picture – filched from Catherine's album – that rests on Harry's desk in the study. "Er...Ruth, Beth, this is Graham," he introduces his son, sweetly unsure of how to proceed. Then, self-consciously, he adds, "Beth's a colleague."

Graham pouts, the image of his father, and sighs coolly, "More bloody spooks here than in a haunted house..." Ruth tries and fails to hide a smile, and decides that she likes Harry's son. "Hello, Graham," she smiles. "I'd get up, but I'm a bit preoccupied." Graham, to Harry's amazement, chuckles outright and goes to lean against the dining table next to her. "So you're my wicked stepmother?" he jokes. That surprises a laugh out of Ruth, who replies mischievously, "Something like that..."

Beth, reassured by Ruth's relaxed attitude to the new arrival, offers, "I used to be Ruth's flatmate. Pleased to meet you." They stand in silence for a moment, Harry covertly watching his son, and then, coming back to earth, he informs the company, "I'm going to pack a bag." A thought stops him at the door, and he turns back. "Graham..." he begins eagerly, "will you come with us?" His son's eyes widen in guarded pleasure. "You want me to?"

Harry's voice is firm and sincere. "Of course."

* * *

Elbow deep in one of Ruth's clothes drawers, Harry is disturbed by Beth. Her face is pale and anxious. "Harry, I don't think Ruth can wait any longer," she murmurs quietly. "I think the baby's coming pretty quickly. The contractions are definitely closer together." Harry looks up irritably, folding one of Ruth's more seemly nightgowns and adding it to the small pile of her essential belongings on the bed. "And when did you become a medical expert?" he queries icily. Beth places her hands on her hips, refusing to back down.

"My mum's a midwife, actually," she informs seriously. Then, sitting on the edge of the bed, she coaxes him gently, "Come on, Harry, let me get her to hospital." Harry's face wrinkles deeply around his eyes. "But I want – " he begins to protest plaintively. If Beth takes Ruth to the hospital, there's a chance he'll miss the birth. He's already missed the births of two of his children, and the thought of making the same mistake for a third time is unappealing to say the least. But Beth is beginning to lose her temper. "Harry Pearce, do you want your child to be born in the back of a car?" she snaps.

"No, but – "

"Well, that's what is going to happen if we wait around any longer. You and Graham can finish packing that bag and meet us at the hospital." Beth's voice contains such a harsh note of authoritative finality that Harry superstitiously wonders if she's somehow channelling the spirit of the departed Ros Myers. "Graham? Me and Graham?" he repeats dubiously. "Yes!" exclaims Beth. He hesitates for a second, incapable of making up his mind. All his training is useless here. Ruth makes up his mind. "Harry! Hurry up!" she cries from downstairs, voice filled with panic and the beginnings of pain. He nods brusquely, and he and Beth head down the stairs.

"You're sure you'll be alright?" Harry asks as he buttons up Ruth's light summer coat. She nods and kisses his cheek. "Yes!" she confirms. But her voice takes on a note of desperation as she adds, "Just hurry!" As Beth guides Ruth out of the door, Harry clutches at her hand. "I love you," he tells her fiercely. "I love you both..." He remains on the doorstep for a long time, watching his wife and unborn child disappear from view, and then, slowly, closes the door.

Harry packs the bag quickly and in no time at all, he and Graham are sitting side by side in the Range Rover, speeding towards the hospital, unsure of what to say to each other. At last, Harry asks, "So... how are you?" Graham looks at him for a moment, weighing up the unfamiliar face of his father. "Better than I've been in a long time," he finally admits. "I got myself clean four years ago, and I'm holding down a steady job." Harry's heart swells with relief and pride. "Congratulations," he murmurs. It doesn't feel like exactly the right thing to say, but he hasn't exchanged words with his son in nearly fifteen years, so anything is better than nothing.

Silence falls again, and Harry desperately casts around for another topic of conversation, while his son is still a captive audience. Graham saves him the trouble. "Er... How are _you_, Dad?" Harry smiles softly, pleased that he still merits the title of father. "Better than I've been in a long time," he replies, echoing Graham's earlier words. Then, in a low voice, he confides, "Ruth helps. She helps a lot." His son nods his curly head thoughtfully, and Harry realises that his son has changed dramatically. He is no longer the angry teenager of a decade ago. He is a young man, quiet, thoughtful, calmer than he has ever been before. Harry vaguely wonders what has brought about such a transformation.

"She's... nice," Graham offers approvingly. "Catherine said you suited each other." Harry chuckles, amused at the thought that his daughter is so concerned about his marriage. "Don't tell Ruth that – I'm worried she won't see it as much of a compliment," he jokes.

Graham shrugs noncommittally, and Harry's grin fades slightly. _Too much, too soon?_ he wonders. Moving their conversation back onto safe ground, he inquires, "Do you see a lot of Catherine, then?" Graham fiddles with the zip on his jacket. "Whenever she's in the country or I can get holiday from work," he answers. "I went over to see her in Israel in November." Harry remembers last November very well. He remembers the phone calls to Catherine every night, checking that she was still alright. He remembers the horrid lurching feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he switched on the news to find that a bomb had gone off in her locality. And then he remembers the overwhelming relief of picking her and Fabian up at the airport when they had arrived in Britain, after Catherine had finished her latest film. But he doesn't remember ever talking to Catherine about her brother.

"She didn't mention that to me," he informs his son, a trace of indignation evident in his voice. He doesn't like to think that Catherine keeps things from him. Graham stares out of the window, and then explains coolly, "She knows how things have been between us – she witnessed most of it. I don't think she likes to get involved." That makes sense, and Harry makes the sudden discovery that his son has inherited his ex-wife's quiet way of watching people and guessing, usually correctly, their motives. He isn't sure whether this is a good or a bad thing, and can't help asking himself what Graham has inherited from him.

"Always the sensible one, your sister," he acknowledges. Then, in an offhand voice, he adds, "I suppose you know her husband, then?" He knows this is a fact. They were both there at the wedding after all, avoiding each other's eyes and keeping a sensible distance. No arguments had broken out, for Catherine's sake more than anything else. Graham had left early, and Harry couldn't help noticing the slightly reproachful glare Jane had thrown at him later. "Fabian's a nice guy," his son states. Then, he pauses, and adds sneeringly, "But then, you might not trust my judgement..." Harry hands clench around the steering wheel, as he feels the beginning of an argument.

"I trust it," he replies, irritated. "For God's sake, I'd even trust you, if you'd let me, Graham." Unconsciously, he has raised his voice, something he promised himself a long time ago that he would never again do to either of his children. Graham swings round to face him, face red and mouth taut. "If I'd _let_ you?" he repeats incredulously. "What is _that_ supposed to mean? I wasn't the one who ignored my wife and two children for years on end, and then walked out on them! I wasn't – " Harry turns into the hospital gates and pulls into a parking space, suddenly drained. "We're here," he announces wearily.

Graham snorts and throws open the car door. "Thanks for the lift," he snaps, and disappears into the night.


	25. It's A

**AN: And finally... a birth! There are a few more chapters to come after this, though. Enjoy!**

* * *

**31****st**** August 2011 9.45 pm**

There is no time to think about his eldest son, now, however, no matter how much Harry might wish to. He sprints into the hospital, and straight up to the maternity ward. Beth meets him the waiting area, relief evident in her face and voice. "Harry! Thank God you're here – what took so long?" Harry scowls at the memory of his latest quarrel with Graham and shakes his head. "Never mind that now!" he answers tersely. "Where's Ruth?" Beth points up the corridor, the look of anxiety returning to her face. "They've taken her straight through to delivery," she explains. Then, as Harry sets off in that direction, she calls, "I don't know if you'll be in time..."

Already breaking into a run again, Harry retorts, "I have to be!"

When he bursts into Ruth's room, she glances up at him and snaps, red-faced, "About bloody time!" Smiling in relief at the fact that she's still strong enough to yell at him, he hurries over to kiss her forehead. "I'm sorry, my darling. How do you feel?" Ruth raises a disbelieving eyebrow. Harry takes a seat next to her and picks up her hand, dancing his lips over her flushed and warm skin. "I know," he mumbles, forestalling her inevitable protests. "Stupid question. Do the doctors know how long it'll be?"

Ruth rests her head back on the pillows. "Not long..." she whispers. Then, she turns her head away from him, her dark locks spilling across the white linen of the pillowcase. "Harry," she admits in a very small voice, "I'm scared. I can't do this..." Harry clutches her hand tighter. Ruth never shows fear. Being the woman she is, she usually refuses to show this sort of weakness. She always has to be the cleverest, the most diligent, the calmest, and the least afraid. A smile of pride curves his mouth. _Oh, my darling girl..._

Firmly, Harry replies, "I don't think you've got much of a choice, sweetheart." Gently, he reaches out and turns her chin around to face him. "I know you can do this," he enunciates clearly. "You've survived exile, terrorists, kidnap, and Malcolm's knock-knock jokes – this is going to be easy in comparison." A breath of laughter hisses from between her slightly parted lips, and Harry grins in reply. But his smile fades to be replaced by a look of firm sincerity as he reassures her, "And I'm here. I promise you, I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

**31****st**** August 2011 11.00 pm**

The midwife rises, frowning. "The baby's getting a bit tangled up, Ruth..." she explains loudly, wanting to make sure her already-exhausted patient fully understands what is being said to her. Turning to Harry, she utters the words that part of him has been dreading. In his seat next to Ruth, holding her hand tightly, he hears her say, as if from far away, "I think it would be best if we could have some space..."

Harry's mouth tightens angrily. "I'm not leaving her!" he states flatly. The midwife, clearly exasperated, puts her hands on her hips and advances on him. "Mr Pearce – " she begins, but Harry is no mood to argue. For the first time since receiving his knighthood, he snaps testily, "It's Sir Harry, actually!" Through her pain, Ruth smiles softly.

The midwife pauses for a moment, and Harry thinks briefly that he's won. He's wrong. The midwife renews her attack. "I don't care. I'm trying to deliver your child, and the sooner I do that, the better for everyone. Out, now!" Harry's face reddens, suddenly understanding the brief memory he has of his father's sulkiness on the night of his younger brother's birth. _That_ had occurred at home, though, and James Pearce had been relegated downstairs to care for his elder son, all the while thinking about his wife upstairs, giving birth to his second child. He hesitates, wondering whether or not to stand his ground. Ruth squeezes his hand weakly. "It's alright, Harry," she breathes, gesturing towards the door with her other hand.

Harry frowns doubtfully, and then suddenly swoops down upon her, and plants a kiss on her lips. "I love you..." he tells her, wanting to imprint the idea on her brain before even considering the idea of leaving her. She nods, forcing a smile for his benefit, and then turns her attention back to the job at hand.

Harry wanders out of the room, and as he hears the door click shut behind him, he feels suddenly bereft. Beth is waiting for him, and, seeing the look on his face, she silently takes his arm and leads him to a seat.

* * *

**1****st**** September 2011 12.15 am**

Harry is pacing. Beth watches helpless from her chair as her boss runs his hands through his hair for the fortieth time, making his sparse brown curls stick up on end. "Just what is taking so long?" he interrogates Beth, pausing for a moment in his pacing. Beth stands up and seizes the front of Harry's jacket in her two hands, preventing him from moving any more.

"Harry," she begins, as patiently as possible, "you need to rest. You'll be no use to Ruth and the baby if you're shattered! Come and sit down." He pulls away from her hands for a fraction of a second and then heaves a sigh. Turning brusquely away from her, Harry throws himself down into the uniform plastic chairs the hospital has provided. _It's going to be a long night..._ Beth thinks, sitting down next to him.

* * *

**1****st**** September 2011 1.45 am**

"Have you decided on any names yet?" asks Beth, passing Harry a cup of coffee. He accepts the polystyrene mug from her without question and takes a sip, grimacing at the drink's weakness. "Ah... Ben, if it's a boy," he informs her. Beth nods, smiling, pleased to see Harry trying to concentrate on something other than what is happening on the other side of that solid door**.**

"And if it's a girl?" she prompts, after a moment of silence. Harry swipes a hand across his tired eyes, trying to force himself to stay awake. Despite his fear and concern for Ruth, he can't help the exhaustion that is flooding his body. He answers Beth's question almost mechanically. "We haven't decided yet." Then, in the tone of a man speaking to a trusted confidante, he adds, "I like 'Ruth' for a girl. But you know she'd never allow it." Beth chuckles and shakes her head.

"Alec's running a book," she informs him. "When Ruth found out, she told Dimitri she liked the sound of 'Chrysanthe' for a girl. He put fifty quid on it!" Harry can't help himself. He bursts out laughing, a deep, rich sound. "Fifty quid?" he repeats, wondering how Dimitri, a former SBS officer, came to be so gullible. "He really believed I'd let her call our daughter 'Chrysanthe'?"

Beth shrugs. "It's Ruth. Anything could happen." The words have an unintentionally sobering effect on her boss. Beth is right. Anything _could_ happen. That's what scares him.

* * *

**1****st**** September 2011 2.37 am**

"No, Tariq, there's no news yet. Put Dimitri on... Hi, sweetheart. I'm still here with Harry... No, no, we're fine as we are. Just go home and get some rest. I'll call as soon as there's more news... I love you too. Bye."

Beth ends the call and slips her mobile back into her pocket. Harry looks up at her from his seat. "No crises on the Grid?" he confirms, watching her with bleary eyes. She shakes her head and returns her feet to their former position, stretched out across the two adjacent chairs. "It's a quiet night. The lads are manning the fort, and anyway, I think you've got more than enough to be worrying about without the safety of the country as well."

Harry nods. Then, deciding he has to tell someone at some point, he explains, "I've put in a request for early retirement, actually, Beth. I want to be a proper father, and our work doesn't exactly allow for that so – " His voice breaks off as Beth throws her arms around his neck. She squeezes him tight, and he laughs in surprise.

"Oh, Harry," Beth grins and releases him. "I'm so pleased for you. Sad that you're leaving, but... pleased. That's one lucky kid in there." Harry shrugs sheepishly. _I'm sure that Graham would have something to say about that..._

* * *

**1****st**** September 2011 3.46 am**

Beth has drifted off to sleep with her head resting on Harry's shoulder. It reminds him of the time when Catherine had had her appendix out at the tender age of four. It had been one of the rare times when he'd taken time off work, having received a panicked phone call from Jane in the ambulance. He'd arrived at the hospital, and for the first time in months, Jane had wrapped herself into his arms and he'd felt needed and wanted. While Harry had sat awake, waiting for his little girl to come out of surgery, Jane, worn out with worry, had fallen asleep on him, and filled his nose with the scent of her sandalwood shampoo. Paradoxically, it is one of the few happy memories he has of his first marriage...

Sighing, he turns his mind back to the present. He wonders whether Graham's damning evaluation of him will still hold true this time. Of course, Harry has no qualms about Ruth's parenting abilities. She'll be a wonderful mother – the times they have spent with Wes have been enough to prove that. If she can manage a teenage boy, then a baby will be no problem. But him... he spent very little time with Catherine and Graham when they were babies, and despite Ruth's assurances that he'll be a natural, Harry is still nervous. Frowning deeply, he flicks his eyes towards the door. Perhaps he'd be reassured if the doors here weren't so soundproof...

* * *

**1****st**** September 2011 4:27 am**

Harry is dozing but the quiet creak of the door jerks him awake. He jumps to his feet, waking Beth as he does so. The midwife walks towards him, and he waits anxiously and eagerly for her. "Sir Harry..." she begins, and he is extremely relieved to see that she is smiling.

"How are they?" he asks breathlessly. "Are they alright?" The midwife gestures him back into a seat. Clearly they've called an unspoken truce. "They're both fine," she reassures him gently.

Harry beams, and then lowers his voice to ask, "What...?" Has he got a son or a daughter? He doesn't need to finish his question – the midwife, perceptive as she is, understands what he wants to know immediately. She tells him.

Next to him, Beth leaps to her feet. "Oh, Harry, congratulations!" she squeals, and reaches in her pocket for her mobile, impatiently brushing strands of blonde hair out of her eyes as she quickly keys in Dimitri's number. Harry stands up and sways on his feet, drunk with happiness. "Thank you," he burbles dazedly, "thank you very much. Can I go and see them?"

The midwife holds the door open for him. "Of course." But he still hesitates on the threshold. Ruth is resting, eyes half-closed, but at the sound of his footsteps, she looks up and gives him a wan smile. Harry rests himself on the edge of the bed. "How are you?" he murmurs, kissing Ruth's hair. She settles her head underneath his chin, and wraps her arms around him before answering. "Exhausted. Ecstatic."

Harry nods and then confides quietly, "Me too." The midwife walks over, carrying a bundle wrapped in a pink blanket, which she passes gently to Ruth. As he had expected, his wife instinctively knows how to hold their daughter. Harry brushes the blanket aside a little to get a better view of their child's face. "Oh, Ruth..." he breathes proudly, "She's beautiful."

Ruth nods, a quiet smile forming on her face. "She's got your eyes," she points out, her voice filled with awe, as their child blinks sleepily up at them. Harry nods and brushes a tender forefinger over the fine down of dark hairs that grace their daughter's head. "And your hair..." he states. Then, anxiously, he asks, "Can I hold her?" Ruth passes the baby to Harry, and smiles as he automatically adjusts his arms to support her head in the crook of his elbow. _He's out of practice_, she notes sleepily, _but by no means incompetent..._

Harry is still looking down in wonder at the bundle in his arms when he announces, "Beth's outside. Shall I send her in?" Despite her exhaustion, Ruth smiles and nods. There's something that needs to be planned before she succumbs to the warmth of her bed and the heaviness of her eyelids. "Mmm. I want her to be godmother, Harry. And call Malcolm – "

He finishes her sentence, knowing her well enough to guess her request. "For godfather. Of course. I'll take care of it all, my darling." But he lingers for a few more minutes, unwilling to leave them, before placing their daughter gently in the cot next to Ruth's bed, kissing her forehead softly. Ruth receives the same treatment, and then he walks towards the door, glancing over his shoulder as he leaves to get one last glance at them. _I am the luckiest man alive_, he tells himself fervently.


	26. A Step Forwards

**AN: I'd like to dedicate this chapter to fozzy88, who left my first ever 100th review! Cheers, fozzy88! And now, some father-son bonding...**

* * *

**1****st**** September 2011 12.30 pm**

Harry has gone to take advantage of one of the hospital's guest beds, on Ruth's request, and she is just settling their daughter down for another nap when there is a knock on the door. She turns around, wrapping her dressing gown tighter around her, and wishing she looked less haggard, and sees Graham standing there. His hair looks dishevelled as if he's spent the night sleeping rough and his eyes are filled with a sort of nervous warmth that reminds her inexplicably of Harry. Hovering on the doorstep, he asks, "Can I come in?"

Ruth smiles warmly and gestures to one of the room's chairs. "Of course, Graham." He wanders in and stops by the baby's cradle, looking down at his younger sibling. "What did you have?" he inquires softly. Ruth moves to stand next to him, and rests a hand on his arm. "You've got a little sister," she informs him. Graham's dark eyebrows quirk up and he lets out a low, bitter laugh. "Don't put it that way to Dad," he advises Ruth. "I'm not exactly his favourite person right now."

Ruth sighs, and leads him away, into the chair. "Oh, that's just his way," she reassures her stepson awkwardly. "He takes his time to recover from, well, from shocks. Don't take it to heart." Graham pinches the bridge of his nose, and Ruth wonders if he knows exactly how much like his father he is. "Ruth, you have no idea how many arguments we've had," he sighs deeply. "I last saw him properly when I was sixteen – we had a huge row, I punched him in the nose and ended up telling him I never wanted to see him again. If I was him, I couldn't forgive that." The honesty of the statement forces tears into Ruth's eyes, and suddenly, all she sees is a problem to be fixed, a bad situation to be made good. "_He_ has," she insists fiercely, hands on hips. "Graham, he makes a point of asking Catherine two questions every time he sees or speaks to her – "how are you?" and, "have you spoken to Graham?" He cares about you, even if he finds it damn difficult to tell you so himself."

Graham looks up in stunned surprise, a slight blush of embarrassed pleasure flooding his thin cheeks. "Catherine said I should come and see him," he explains shyly. "She said he's changed a lot in the past few years. She said you'd changed him." Now it is Ruth's turn to blush. She knows that this is what Catherine thinks of her, and Harry has freely admitted that it is true, but it doesn't make her feel any more comfortable about it. She isn't used to having such influence over anyone. "I'm flattered," she replies dryly. She eases herself into the chair opposite him, wincing slightly as she does so. They sit in silence for a while, neither knowing what to say, and then Ruth asks boldly, "Why now?"

Graham's face falls with the old knowledge that he isn't wanted, and Ruth begins to babble. "I'm sorry, that came out wrong; I didn't mean to sound... I'm not sure what I meant..." _Stop_ she orders her mouth, and for once it obeys. To her surprise, her gracelessness has coaxed a smile out of Graham and he announces, "I'm getting married in December. It was Rachel and Catie between them who convinced me to come and find Dad." There is a light in his eyes that Ruth is sure isn't there in the few pictures Harry has of his son, taken years ago, when Graham was on the cusp of adolescence and finding everything difficult. Feeling guilty for questioning him in what must have seemed a very intrusive way, she ducks her head and sighs apologetically, "Oh... Graham, I - "

Tentatively, he reaches out and squeezes her hand. "Don't worry about it." Casting about for another topic of conversation, one likely to be less explosive, he queries, "Have you thought of any names?" Startled by the sudden change, and still feeling as though her mental faculties are half a step behind the rest of her, Ruth echoes blankly, "Names?" Grinning, Graham gestures to the cradle in the corner of the room. "For the little one," he elaborates. "She can't stay 'Baby Girl Pearce' for the rest of her life..."

Ruth laughs, pleased to note that Graham has inherited his father's gentle sense of humour. "Not yet – " she begins, but the gentle creak of the door halts her in mid-sentence as Graham' facial expression changes subtly. His previously open, laughing countenance has become guarded and somehow severe. Ruth half-turns in the chair, cricking her neck, and sees Harry standing in the doorway, attractively tousled, with his jacket slung over one shoulder. If he'd been a dog, his hackles would definitely have been raised. Graham stands up abruptly, and Ruth notes that he and Harry are of roughly the same height and build.

"Sorry," the younger man apologises coolly. "I'll give you a bit of privacy." Harry stands aside, clearly not about to protest. Suppressing an impatient sigh at her husband's stubbornness, Ruth tells Graham, "Call back when you can. To see the baby." Graham smiles faintly and nods his head once. "I will. Thanks, Ruth."

A moment later, he is gone, brushing past Harry on his way out. Harry advances into the room, shutting the door with a snap that echoes finality. He kisses Ruth on the lips, drops his jacket into Graham's recently vacated chair, and moves over to the cradle, staring lovingly down at his youngest daughter. But it is his son who is occupying Ruth's mind. "What are you going to do about Graham?" she asks quietly but firmly. Harry stiffens momentarily, and then forces himself to reply lightly. "Do? What do you mean?"

Feigning ignorance hasn't worked with Ruth for a very long time. She persists. "I mean – are you going to see him again?" Harry exhales deeply, dissatisfied. Harshly, he informs his wife, "I would if I thought he wanted me." Ruth stands up slowly and goes to stand next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. Harry automatically wraps an arm around her waist and turns his head slightly to kiss her forehead. "Harry," she murmurs, "he's getting married in two months." They are so close that Harry's head almost collides with Ruth's as he jerks away from her. His eyes are wide with stunned amazement, and she can tell that it is taking all of his willpower to keep his voice down, when he hisses, "He's doing _what_?"

Ruth, used to maintaining serenity in the most trying of situations, repeats calmly, "Getting married. He's just told me." Harry turns away, burying his face in his large hands. Ruth hears a muffled groan, and then Harry demands, "How is it that both my children find it easier to confide things to you? Why didn't he say anything to me?" By this time, Ruth's hands have found their way to her hips, and she is frowning lightly at the general childishness of the male sex. "Because he's just as bloody stubborn as you are," she informs him honestly. He whips round, mouth open to argue, but Ruth raises a single eyebrow and he falls silent. "If you don't want to make a huge mistake and have your daughter grow up without her big brother, then you'll go and speak to him. Now," she tells him, in her sweetest voice.

* * *

He sees his son as soon as he leaves the hospital, leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. _At least it's nothing worse_... he reminds himself dubiously. Stepping forward, he announces himself with a single word. "Graham." His son jumps like the guilty schoolboy he was for far too short a time, and surreptitiously drops the cigarette, stamping it out with the heel of one of his trainers. "Dad?" He sounds confused, astonished, unsure – exactly the way Harry feels. Slowly and purposefully, Harry moves closer, as if his son is a skittish horse he does not want to startle into flight. He holds out his hand. "Congratulations. I mean, Ruth told me - " Graham raises a hand, forestalling any explanation.

"Of course." They shake hands, Harry delighting in any contact with the son he's barely seen for the best part of a decade, and then Graham lays a hand on his father's shoulder. Looking down at the ground, he says seriously, "Sorry, Dad." Dipping his own head to look into Graham's eyes, so like Jane's, Harry lightly taps his son's arm with his fist. "I think we've both done enough apologising to last a lifetime," he announces firmly. "Let's ease up on each other. Like Ruth said, come and see the baby. Maybe you could come round for dinner, once everything's settled. Bring your fiancé." The offer comes out in a rush, and once it is made, Harry steps back slightly, chewing his lip and looking nervously at his son.

"Nothing is ever settled with you, Dad," Graham points out. Harry's head tips back slightly, as though he's derived some physical pain from his son's words. Once, he would have started yelling, or lashed out or, perhaps even worse, he would have simply walked away. But he isn't the same man he was during Graham's childhood. Now, he has enough honesty to be able to admit, somewhat ruefully, "Haven't been the best father, have I?" Graham looks him in the eye, weighing up an answer.

"Honestly? No." Harry's face falls slightly, but then Graham grins wryly, and adds, "But... I think Ruth'll keep you on the straight and narrow from now on." Harry chuckles, privately agreeing. "I hope so," he replies lightly. "Your stepmother really has got a wicked streak."

Graham nods and turns his head slightly to look out over the hospital car park. "Dinner... sounds good," he tells Harry hesitantly. His father, beaming inwardly, keeps his voice level and calm as he comments, "Excellent." He follows Graham's line of sight, and the two men stand there, with their shoulders not quite touching, looking for all the world like two strangers. But both know that that is not true. It will never be true again.

Graham's voice is stronger the next time he speaks. More confident. Sure of a favourable reply. "And Dad... about the wedding. You'll come? You and Ruth and the baby? It's on December 4th."

"We – I – wouldn't miss it for the world."


	27. An Operation of Spooks

**AN: Anyone else want to throw in an idea for a collective noun for MI5 agents? Hope you enjoy the chapter...**

* * *

**1****st**** September 2011 6.30 pm**

Harry returns inside, having left Graham on the phone to his fiancé, to find Ruth fast asleep on her bed, one arm thrown across her eyes to shade them from the late afternoon sun flooding through the window. He twitches the curtains closed a little, and then pauses at his daughter's cradle. She is, unlike her mother, awake. He smiles down at her and she stares innocently back up at him. Waiting. Harry just watches her for a moment, and then her lip begins to tremble. Sensing an incipient outburst, he reaches down hastily and picks his child up.

"Shh, shh, lass. Your mum's asleep," he murmurs, rocking her gently against his chest. Her weight (seven pounds, four ounces, as he was reliably informed by Ruth earlier) is supremely comforting in his arms. He shifts slightly from one foot to the other and his daughter hiccups slightly and settle again, eyes still open. _Lively from the off, then..._ Harry decides. Sitting down in the chair, he supports the baby carefully against his upper arm. "We haven't had a chance to talk, have we? No..." he croons softly. When Catherine and Graham were small, he was rarely present, and always awkward even when he was there. Jane was a natural mother, leaving Harry with very little of the domestic nature to do. He had always had the uncomfortable sensation that he was not really needed at home. Far better to stay an extra hour at the office, where he could actually do some good...

Shaking his head at his past folly, he focuses on the present. "I'm your Dad," he informs her. "And I love you so much already... You _and_ your Mum. She's lovely, and much cleverer than I am, so she'll try to convince you that she knows better than me. I'll admit, sometimes she will, but most of the time, I know what I'm talking about. Stick with me, and you'll be alright." He looks over at Ruth's sleeping form and then down at his child again. The two most important things in his life.

Deciding it is best to be truthful from the beginning, he confides seriously, "I've had a crack at this before, and to be honest with you, it didn't go too well. I'll do my very best, though... Your Mum will teach you all sorts of odd things, like how to put on mascara and walk in killer heels, and what the Mandarin for 'quark' is, but I am going to take care of the important stuff. I promise. I'm going to build you dolls' houses, and teach you to ride your bike with no hands, and be the one you call when you get absolutely plastered on your eighteenth and need a lift home at two in the morning - "

Ruth sits up, smiling sleepily, and the bed creaks. Harry looks up sharply, and then his face relaxes into a sheepish grin, wondering how long she's been awake for. "You big softy, Harry Pearce," she laughs and begins to get up.

And so it is that, when the entire team arrive just ten minutes later, they find Harry and Ruth squished into the same soft chair, cradling their daughter between them, wearing identical expressions of devoted bliss. Alec enters first, throwing a wink over his shoulder at a pretty red-haired nurse, as he slips a small piece of paper into his pocket. Beth and Dimitri follow, hand in hand, with Tariq and a very nervous looking Malcolm bringing up the rear. Ruth stands up, and presents her daughter to the admiring crowd of spooks.

"Any names yet?" Alec asks, while Beth coos over her goddaughter, whom she has just received from Ruth's arms. Harry passes a weary hand over his eyes and threatens sternly, "If one more person asks me that, I'll fire the lot of you." Beth pauses in her ministrations to look up and suggest enthusiastically, "How about 'India'?" Ruth turns slightly, catches the look of wide-eyed incredulity on Harry's face, and suppresses a grin as he stutters, "T-too modern."

Around a mouthful of the grapes he's filched from Ruth's bedside table, Dimitri mumbles, "Chrysanthe?" Everyone looks up, and starts laughing in unison. "What?" he asks indignantly. "I like it. It's classy, and Greek, and... and... " He tries and fails to come up with another adjective, and Ruth decides to save him the trouble. "And it'll earn you fifty quid," she finishes wryly. Beth chokes on yet another laugh and Alec pats her boyfriend sympathetically on the shoulder. "I think we should let Ruth and Harry decide," Malcolm interjects authoritatively. Ruth smiles gratefully at him.

Beth rolls her eyes and nudges Malcolm in the ribs. "Oh, come on, Malcolm. You're the godfather – chuck in an idea for the kid's name, at least." Uncomfortably, Malcolm shifts from one foot to another, and glances apologetically at the new parents. "Alright... Isobel." There is a general murmur of assent, broken only by Ruth yawning. When she has stopped, she looks around, fighting to keep her eyes open.

"Sorry, everyone. I'm really tired..." she murmurs. Alec gets up, poking Tariq in the ribs as he does so to make the techie move. Beth passes the baby, now asleep, over to Harry and flashes Dimitri a sultry smile as he helps her on with her coat. Malcolm shakes hands with Harry and gives Ruth an awkward hug, his eyes full of happiness for his two friends. "No worries," Alec reassures Ruth as he kisses her cheek. "We'll bugger off and give you some peace." The room empties, until only Harry, Ruth and their child are left.

Ruth changes into pyjamas as Harry settles the baby back into her cradle. Relieved and exhausted, Ruth slides between the cool sheets of the bed and feels it sink as Harry sits on the edge of it. "Ruth?" he asks, sounding surprisingly serious. Sighing, she closes her eyes and replies sleepily, "Yes, Harry?" Her husband shifts slightly, and Ruth can imagine him opening and closing his mouth as he tries to form the words he wants to say. At last, he whispers, "What if we can't think of a name for her? I mean, I've never done this before – "

Ruth turns over to face him and looks up into his anxious hazel eyes. "Harry," she begins firmly. "There is a name out there somewhere that's right for her. It doesn't worry me and it shouldn't worry you either." Harry's lines deepen as he frowns stubbornly.

"But – " he protests. Ruth smiles, exasperated, and reaches up to smooth the crease between his eyes with her forefinger.

"And it doesn't make you a bad father, either," she interrupts him gently. "Now shut up and go to sleep."

* * *

**AN: Name up next, I promise!**


	28. Nomenclature

**AN: Two updates in one go, to make up for the long wait...**

* * *

**2****nd**** September** **2011 9.22 am**

Harry wakes up early the next morning, and, unable to return to the arms of Morpheus, gets up and begins to pack Ruth's bags. The doctors have told him she and the baby can return home today, and he wants to make their departure from the hospital a little more organised than their arrival. Returning from putting the gifts brought by the team in the car, he is surprised to find Ruth up, dressed and feeding their daughter. "Sorry," he apologises, giving them both a good morning kiss. "Did I wake you?"

Ruth smiles up at him, her face peaceful and well rested. "No," she reassures him, "I've just been thinking about the names on our list..." It is then that Harry notices the notepad lying next to her, which Ruth moves nonchalantly out of his way. He sighs, raising a warning finger. "For the final time," he sighs impatiently, "I refuse to name out daughter Chrysanthe." Ruth shakes her head and tickles the dark down on the top of their daughter's head with her finger. "I was thinking 'Harriet', actually."

Harry pauses. "Harriet," he echoes, testing the sound of the name on his tongue. Ruth nods, and looks up at him, biting her lip. Waiting for his approval. "Yes – Hattie for short. It's pretty, and traditional. And..." Harry sits down next to her, and mischievously finishes her sentence for her. "Harriet Vane is your favourite Lord Peter Wimsey character!" She giggles, and smacks his arm lightly. "It isn't just because of that..." she protests huffily. Then her face softens as she murmurs confidingly, "I mean, it will always remind me of you."

Harry swallows the lump in his throat, touched by her reasoning. "If you can forget me, darling, then I'm obviously not doing my job properly," he jokes lightly, kissing her hand. She meets his eyes and leans in for a kiss. When they surface, Harry nods. "I think it's absolutely perfect." Ruth stands up, suddenly business-like, nestling Harriet against her shoulder to burp her. "Good," she grins. "That's good..."

"You both look shattered," Beth compliments them as she wanders in an hour later. "Has she been giving you trouble already?" The new parents catch each other's eyes and laugh. Harry gets up, removing the remains of his wife's breakfast from her tray and placing the plate on the room's small table. "Actually, Beth," he replies, somewhat severely, "I'd like to know why you're here and not guarding the bloody country!" Beth waves off the implied reprimand and explains airily, "Alec said it was OK for me to come and see the baby, and help you get Ruth home, before I went in this morning." Sitting down next to Ruth, she asks sympathetically, "Is he this grouchy to you too?"

Ruth nods solemnly and Harry lets out a noise of indignation. Biting back a smile, Ruth informs her, "We've decided on a name." Beth's face lights up with curiosity, and she moves closer to Ruth in her eagerness. "What have you picked?" she inquires excitedly. "Because I've had second thoughts about 'India' and – " Rolling his eyes and deciding to prevent an incipient gushing of unusual names, Harry interrupts with, "Her name is going to be Harriet Pearce."

Beth pauses to think about it for a moment, and then pronounces her judgement. "That's lovely!" she announces decisively. But, to everyone's surprise but her own, Ruth corrects them. "But she isn't going to be called that." Harry is convinced she's changed her mind, and he is united with Beth when the latter echoes, "She isn't?"

Ruth nods in confirmation. "No. She's going to be Harriet Fiona Pearce." Harry lets out a sigh of relief, and then realises what she has just said. "Fiona?" he murmurs softly. "You're sure?" Ruth smiles, and nods firmly. Confused, Beth looks between them, wondering why her goddaughter's middle name holds such significance. At last, seeing that a reason isn't forthcoming, she queries, "Fiona?"

Without taking her eyes off Harry, Ruth replies, "Harry's mother." Her husband's hazel eyes fill with tears of joy and gratitude. "I'll wait outside for you three," Beth announces and slips out quietly. Cheekily, Ruth nudges Harry. "Just the wind?"

Harry looks down at the child in her arms, his face a mixture of tenderness and wonder. "No," he admits softly. "I'm crying."

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**AN: Just the epilogue to go now... thanks again to all the lovely people who have taken the time to read and review - you guys are awesome!**


	29. Have I Told You Lately?

**AN: The epilogue... enjoy!**

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**Five years later...**

The Pearces' garden is filled with the scent of flowers and the warmth of a late summer evening. Handing a plate of Harry's barbecued chicken wings across the wooden table to Wes, Ruth takes the opportunity to glance around her at the rest of their guests. All the people she loves most in this world – Harry sitting next to her, in a very attractive pale blue shirt, still partially covered by his chef's apron; Catherine and Fabian, arguing playfully over the pros and cons of Catherine's new film; Graham and Rachel, the latter nursing a sizeable baby bump, while the former filches a fourth veggie burger from the dish in front of him; Polly (currently getting over a break-up; Ruth makes a mental note to introduce her to Alec); Malcolm, buried in conversation with Gina, Ruth's editor; 'Grammy' Helen, who appears to be lecturing Tariq on the length of his hair; Alec, joking around with Beth and Dimitri the newly-weds; Wes, surreptitiously feeding scraps from his plate to the Pearces' new Border Collie puppy, Alfie; Hattie and James, Catherine and Fabian's son, squabbling over the last jacket potato at the end of the table.

Suddenly Ruth feels glad that they've hosted this party. After the birthday picnic they'd held last week for Hattie's school friends, she'd almost called the whole thing off. Twenty excitable five year olds had exhausted her enough for one month, thank you very much, but Harry had talked her round, with that indefinable energy he has rediscovered since Hattie's birth five years ago. Her life has changed so much in that time, she realises with another smile. Juggling Hattie with the Catullus translation, returning to university to do a research doctorate, moving on to academic research and getting papers published, with Harry there through it all, enjoying family life and retirement, and watching their child grow. They are an ordinary couple, more ordinary than she could ever have imagined. The simplest things – like doing the shopping on a Sunday morning, or volunteering with the Parent/Teacher Association at Hattie's school – give her an inordinate amount of pleasure. She would feel stupid, but she knows that Harry feels just the same way about baking cakes with Hattie, and collecting eggs from the four chickens they've recently adopted from a local farmer. She glances over at him, and he returns her gaze, lifting her hand quietly to kiss it, snatching a private moment out of the chaos of organising and hosting this evening's festivities.

Once everyone has eaten enough food to sink a sizeable battleship, and they have sung 'Happy Birthday' to Hattie around a sizeable homemade chocolate cake, they leave the table to lounge on blankets on the grass, or on garden benches. Hattie and James are playing tag with Graham and Wes, while Alfie dances around their legs, yapping excitedly. Helen has brought out her knitting, determined to finish a jumper for Hattie before it gets cold enough for her to wear it, and keeping up a passable conversation with Harry at the same time. He watches as his wife leads Polly over to Alec, who hastily disposes of his can of lager to flirt, and rolls his eyes. _My wife, the hopeless romantic. __**My wife**_. As Ruth leaves Polly and Alec getting on very well, obviously heading his way, he is disappointed to see her waylaid by Gina.

Shaking her red curls over her shoulders, Gina takes Ruth's arm and leads her aside. "Your friend Malcolm..." she begins awkwardly and then stops. Ruth frowns, somewhat bemused, and unsure where this conversation is heading. Gina takes a breath and giggles. "I don't know why I'm so nervous... I just wanted to ask if... look, have you got his number?" Relieved, Ruth beams up at her slightly taller friend.

"You like him? Malcolm?" she clarifies, and is undeniably happy when Gina nods. She knows from Harry that Malcolm hasn't had a long-term girlfriend since his fiancé, Sarah, abandoned him on their wedding day twenty years ago, and Gina, with her bubbly personality, brains and kind heart would be very good for her friend. Ruth smiles and then nods. "I think Malcolm would give you his number himself, if you asked him." Gina bites her lip and casts a quick glance over her shoulder, to where Malcolm is busy congratulating Graham and Rachel on the latter's pregnancy. "Are you sure?" she whispers.

Ruth, with all the confidence of a happily married woman, turns her around and pushes her lightly in Malcolm's direction. "I am absolutely positive," she reassures her. A self-satisfied grin dances in her eyes as she watches the redhead stumble into conversation again with Malcolm, and is delighted when he blushes crimson with ecstasy and fumbles in his pocket for his mobile phone. She will be further rewarded later, when Malcolm will pull her into a tight hug and triumphantly murmur the name of a restaurant and a day sometime next week. But for now, she weaves through her family and settles herself on a blanket, spreading the skirts of her red A-line dress around her, lying back and closing her eyes. A moment later, Hattie collapses next to her, utterly out of breath and giggling uncontrollably. Her hair has half come out of the ponytail it was firmly put in five hours ago, so Ruth releases it from the hairband and gently finger combs it while her daughter gets her breath back, and stifles several yawns.

"It'll be up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire with you in a while, my girl," Ruth warns with a smile, as Hattie vigorously shakes her head. "James hasn't gone to bed," she points out, with a keen sense of justice, "And he's months younger than I am!" Ruth raises her eyebrows and wraps her arms around her daughter from behind, pulling her onto her lap, wishing that they could stay this way forever.

"Alright," a voice concedes gently from above them, as a shadow falls across them. "You can stay up for half an hour more, and then you really are going to bed, Hattie." Ruth looks up, and Harry sits down next to them, taking Hattie on to his own lap. "How long is half an hour?" Hattie asks plaintively. Harry sighs and removes his watch. "When the little hand gets from here... to here... that's half an hour," he explains and then hands the watch to Hattie for her to see for herself. They are slowly teaching her to tell the time, with a combination of explanations like this one and offhand queries as to the time at odd hours of the day – Ruth has even taken to 'forgetting' her watch just so she can do it - determined that Hattie will have a head start on this part of her education, just as she has with reading, writing and counting.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spies Wes, hovering, jacket slung over one shoulder, obviously waiting to say goodbye. She gets up and goes over. "Thanks for inviting me, Aunt Ruth," he grins, a tall young man of eighteen, the image of Adam. She hugs him and kisses his cheek quickly. "Not at all, Wes. And you're still coming for dinner on Thursday?" It has become a regular occurrence for Wes to eat with them occasionally during the week, especially now Ruth is developing the irrational fear that when he starts university, at her _alma mater_ no less, next month, he will starve to death. He nods eagerly, and then asks conspiratorially, "Can I bring... a friend?"

Ruth smiles slyly. "This friend wouldn't happen to be a young lady called Louisa, would it?" she inquires nonchalantly. Wes' mouth drops open and he gapes like a fish until Ruth gently pinches his top and bottom lips together again. "How did you know?" he gasps. She pats his shoulder comfortingly. "I heard you on the phone to her earlier," she confesses. "While I was trying to find someone to help lay the table. Do you like her _very_ much, Wes?"

Her adopted nephew blushes slightly and nods. "She was in my form at school... and she's going to Oxford, too, to do a Classics degree, like you."

Ruth beams. "Well, in that case, she's very welcome, Wes. I'll tell your uncle to cook enough for five." Impulsively, Wes launches himself forwards again and gives Ruth a rib-cracking hug. He's far taller than she is now, but still so much of a child in so many ways... "Thanks Aunt Ruth," he murmurs fervently. When they part, Ruth is brushing at her eyes.

"Nonsense," she replies briskly. "Drive safely and give me a call when you get home, Wes."

Finally, Ruth manages to relax. She returns to the blanket and closes her eyes, allowing the chatter of her guests and the giggles of the children to lull her into a light doze. She feels Harry's weight settle next to her and stifles a smile, determined to ignore his presence. Gently, he tears off a blade of grass, and brushes it across Ruth's cheek, tickling her. She bats his hand away and he leans over to kiss her. "Dance with me," he invites. Ruth's eyes open and her face forms into an expression that Beth always denotes, "the look."

"There's no music..." she begins to explain patiently, but Harry raises a finger for quiet. From somewhere, the first strains of "Have I Told You Lately...?" can be heard and her eyes widen. "Harry Pearce, how – " He covers her mouth with his hand and pulls her, unprotesting, to her feet. "It's all about the timing, Ruth," he informs her as he swings her into his arms.

She chokes on a laugh, and mutters into his shoulder, "Never used to be your strong point." He tuts impatiently and his arms tighten around her. "It's one of the many changes for the better I've been lucky enough to experience..." he winks suavely, whirling them round. Ruth catches a glimpse of Dimitri pulling Beth up from their blanket, as Malcolm softly offers his hand to Gina. "You old – " she begins, and Harry interrupts.

"Romantic?"

"Rogue. Charmer. Sod," she retorts, voice thick with suppressed amusement. Harry's arms tighten around her as he kisses the top of her head. "Thank you, Ruth," he grins dryly. "As always, your eloquence is impeccable..." She laughs softly against his shoulder. Then she looks up seriously into his eyes. "Thank you."

Harry looks momentarily, endearingly, baffled. "Whatever for, sweetheart?" he inquires, negotiating them through the other couples that are now dancing with them. Ruth's eyes blur with tears of happiness. "Everything," she answers, voice breaking. "I _do_ love you, you know." Harry's thumb, unsurprisingly gentle, brushes her eyes dry and kisses her again.

"I think it might have come up, once or twice." Settling her head against Harry's shoulder, Ruth closes her eyes and relaxes into his arms, feeling that the whole of her life, the whole of her world, is centred here and now, on this dance, on this night, in the arms of this man, whom it took her so long to find.

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By the time Hattie's half an hour has elapsed, she is in Harry's arms, four-fifths asleep, as they bid goodnight to those who aren't staying – Beth and Dimitri, Tariq, Graham and Rachel, Polly and Alec (who look set to be seeing much more of each other in the imminent future), and Malcolm and Gina. Somehow, Malcolm's hand has found the small of Gina's back, and he confides quietly to Harry that he is giving her a lift home. Catherine and Fabian are busy putting James to bed in one of the spare rooms, while Helen is probably already asleep, having said goodnight to everyone a while ago.

Upstairs, having ensured that their daughter is fast asleep and unlikely to wake for several hours, Harry catches Ruth around the waist from behind. She squeaks softly in surprise, but the noise is drowned out by Harry's voice, deep and low and intense with passion. "It's true, you know. The song. _Fill my heart with gladness, take away my sadness_ – " They are both singing, quietly so as not to wake the children, and then Ruth releases herself from his arms and turns around to face him. "_You ease my troubles that's what you do_..." Standing on tiptoes, she kisses his forehead. "I love you."

He catches up her hand. "I love you too," he tells her fiercely. "Never let stop telling me, Ruth. Remind me every day, if you have to. Even when I'm ancient, and senile, and can't tie my own shoelaces. Even when Hattie's grown up and has her own children, and we're grumbling about the state of kids today – " Ruth's snort interrupts him momentarily.

"You do that anyway!" she protests.

"Promise me, Ruth..." he insists, running his fingers down her jawline, tracing the shape of her face.

"I promise."

There is a moment of silence. Then Ruth, trembling with curiosity, asks, "What about you? Are you happy, Harry? Do... do I make you happy?" Her hesitancy is enough to make him draw her into his arms again. "Oh, my darling... my dear, dear darling. I adore you. I love your mind, your soul, and your body. Completely, utterly, irrevocably, till death do us part and after."

And so Ruth holds onto Harry, and Harry onto Ruth, melded together, souls intertwined, looking down upon their daughter. Their future.

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**AN: And that really is the end! Thanks to everyone who has read or reviewed this story – you have made this whole process so enjoyable. I do have another idea for continuing this storyline, but it won't get written for a while, since I have another, more pressing storyline to write – I'm planning a Spooks fic set in the Regency period, with an eventual H/R pairing.**


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